


Fire and Ice

by ellymelly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 94
Words: 495,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellymelly/pseuds/ellymelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There has always been more to Ser Jorah Mormont than a disgraced sell sword surviving on the edge of the world. His is the story of Fire and Ice. Azor Ahai prophecy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Tides

 

* * *

 

** PART I - FIRE **

“There is no creature on earth half so terrifying as a truly just man.”

-VARYS

* * *

 

  
  


 

 

### ASSHAI

### DATE ( UNKNOWN )

 

The ruin smouldered through the night. Dusk woke, the sun reigned and died into the sea. Again, the embers of the city left a black stain over the land. _Asshai_. A place beyond death the common tongue called, _The Shadow Lands._ The darkness was not made from shadows – it was born of fire's after burn.

In the darkness, the warm water lapped along the awkward harbour. Built on a foundation of sharp rock and unstable pumice, the few jetties left standing slanted to the side, ever reaching for the acidic tide chewing through the pylons. Far below, the sea floor puffed away. The surface of the world cracked at _Asshai_. It breathed the water, poisoning it – though not everything was dead. Creatures with scales and snake-like bodies laid on the bottom, sunning themselves on the fires of the underworld.

 _Asshai by the Shadow._ A vision of hell.

The young merchant tightened his grip on the handrail of the ship while the crew belayed the ropes, locking the sails in place. Silent, the small vessel drifted toward its mooring, turning gently before ropes were thrown over the side, landing on the jetty with heavy thuds. The men followed, scrambling across the soot-covered planks, hauling the ship closer and closer. It fought back, groaning against the ropes as though it had no desire to be lashed to such a place.

He wasn't sure if it was a trick of the evening light, or if the world darkened. The merchant tilted his head toward the sky and saw a wisp of cloud cut into crescent moon. Whatever light was stolen from the moon, it was given to the stars tenfold. There was a second ocean of them above the land, spinning in a slow dance. He had laid on the deck for months watching them play. Now, these specks of light brought him the strength he'd need to face the city.

The remains of _Asshai_ reminded the merchant of a nest. When he was small he had found himself lost on the outskirts of the _Red Waste_. Tiny creatures the size of sand grains built cities of their own out of the red earth. Their efforts raised ugly towers, crowded on top of each other with pointed tops. Vast, ugly but oddly bewitching. The sprawl in front of him held the same appeal. He suspected it was held together by spells. Their bases glowed, highlighting horrifying reliefs gouged into their facades.

He shied away from the heat and kept his eyes on the street.

The directions his master had given him were easy enough to follow. None of the pale-faced residents approached as he came upon the oldest building in _Asshai_. There was no name for it. All names had been lost to time and ash. Knowledge was scarce enough in the world, even here at the furthermost borders. The merchant's eyes went wide. After he'd climbed the black steps he realised that the entire front of the building yawned in a great dragon mouth filled with row after row of obsidian teeth. No silver haired _Targaryen_ could birth such a place.

A shadow appeared from the mouth of the dragon. It took the form of a woman. Pale and wrapped in yards of black silk, she beckoned the merchant to follow.

She whispered many things to the air as they sank deeper into the temple. The shadow binder brought him to a vast, circular room lit by the light from its own walls. The room was tiled with _dragonglass_ and behind it, fire. It burned with no heat – flame held back by black ice. At the centre was a stone table with a thick book splayed open.

The woman reached out her hand. The merchant laid a heavy purse of emeralds from the _Summer Isles_ onto it and then approached the book.

 

 

 

> ' _There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him'_

 

He read it. Read it again and then paid the woman the rest of her fee.

### BEAR ISLAND

### 254 AC

 

A newborn child screamed at the cold. _Bear Island_ could never lay claim to warm summers or mild springs. If it wasn't snowing, the land lay shrouded in mist. Lichen carpeted anything that refused to freeze while dark trunks of the ancient forests stuck out from the snow. Their girths had swollen in the years of 'summer'. They stood immovable for aeons – unless a _Bear_ came by with an axe.

The child fought every attempt to swaddle. He had not been in the world five minutes when he decided that he liked the chill against his skin. Another Mormont in the world. This one, at least, immediately proved that it could smile. The baby reached toward the open window, seeing fragile flecks of snow wander in. They danced and melted in the air as they were drawn toward the fire.

Jeor Mormont left his place by the fire and moved to the window which had his heir captivated. A fresh wave of snow caught in his thick beard that had only this year begun to grey around his lips. _Mormont Keep_ looked over a storm of jagged rocks tossed into the freezing sea. The salt was stirred up by the crashing waves and hurled onto the cliffs. The spray became mist, hiding the most violent corners of the coast from view. It was a harsh land. A land that found beauty in razor sharp cliffs and peaks of ruined volcanoes eaten away by the ocean.

“You should be sleeping,” he told the infant sternly, dragging the window closed.

Jorah's smile died. His tiny hands returned to fussing with the edges of his crib as if he wanted to go somewhere. He did not cry. Instead, the infant stared stoically at the raven on his father's shoulder. The bird shuffled its feathers, shedding a few onto the floor as the great bear turned around and cast his gaze back over the log house. It was safe and warm – easy to forget about the fragile perch _Bear Island_ kept between _The North_ and _The_ _Land of Always Winter_. On a clear day from the top of _Bear Keep_ you could make out the glistening peaks of an unnamed mountain range – more ice than rock. Jeor'd wiled away the hours watching the silent North. Some days the snow brewed over its mountains and roared across the sea, consuming the island. Other days were clear. The eerie silence and unnatural stillness of the land left him uneasy.

Jeor's wife was by the fire, sharpening her longsword. It would be days before she could fight again but the women of _Bear Island_ were warriors in their own right. Then men were soon to venture back to the seas leaving the women to defend the small, ugly protrusion of rock from _Wildling_ raiding parties.

“I could stay,” Jeor offered.

His wife cast a scornful look at him. “Take your troubles to the gods,” she replied, punctuated by another sharp strike of stone against steel. “There is nothing more dangerous in this world than a bear with her cubs.”

*~*~*

The _Wildlings_ came as sure as the snow. When the men of _Bear Island_ and their boats became flecks of dust on the water and the weak sun slid down into the western sky, a small fleet of canoes paddled onto the shore. They made landfall in a sacred bay guarded by caves which once housed something older than the gods. Above, a _Weirwood_ tree spilled over the edge of the cliff. Its roots trailed through every crevice like entrains, twisted and swaying with the salty winds. Above, its shock of red leaves was surreal against the muted landscape.

One by one, each _Wildling_ that ventured onto the shore bowed and whispered a prayer at the howling face carved into the wood. They gripped their crude axes and caressed the feathers of their arrows then moved as wolves, picking their way through the ancient forest toward the village.

The tides ran black.

Come the morning, they were red.

The winds picked up, whistling through the many wounds on _Mormont Keep's_ scared face. Inside the tower, a thick layer of smoke from the dying fireplace was trapped, butting up against the stone walls – kicked in chaotic swirls whenever the wind found a way in. Hidden beneath his mother's corpse was the infant Mormont prince. The growing cold of his mother's skin reminded him of flecks of ice, spiralling through the window.

Alone in the salted smoke, the baby watched the last flames flicker in the coals, then die. On the _Bay of Ice's_ silver edge, the fishing boats cut through the water, turning against the tide.

### ESSOS - THE GREAT GRASS SEA

### 300 AC

 

The bedrock trembled with the thunder of eighty-thousand hooves. Horses descended on Daenerys, spiralling toward her as though she stood at the heart of some great storm. Their riders screeched, brandishing _arakhs_ and snapping whips in her direction. A _khalasar_ was noise. A dance.

The Mother of Dragons, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains, Queen of Meereen, Princess of Dragonstone and _Khaleesi_ tilted her head curiously at the rabble.

She remembered many of the faces caked in paint, gyrating wildly atop their beasts. They would remember her too. Stories travelled the winds, even as far as the grassy-waters of _Essos_. The only reason that she remained untouched was fear.

Daenerys waited.

From deep within their ranks came a rider on a black horse, nearly a foot taller than any other beast. Its powerful neck swayed as it walked, barely noticing the leather ropes cutting grooves in his coat. Daenerys buried her amusement when she finally laid eyes upon the new _khal_.

 _More horse than man_ , you might say, a savage barely risen from the gravel. Even with him high above on his stallion and her with bare feet in the grass, he was left to linger in her shadow. She was the Silver Queen and very soon, he would be returned to the dust.


	2. Silver Scales

 

### MEEREEN

  


A chain slid along a stone floor in the darkness, running well-worn grooves through _Meereen's_ dungeons.

The air was suffocating, thick with marble dust. Walls met the dragon's nose at every turn, biting at its scales as it squeezed its body through passageways meant for man not beast. Rhaegal was followed by his brother, Viserion, who dragged the melted remnants of his chains behind. They lingered like entrails, falling away link by link.

As soon as they emerged into a larger chamber, the golden dragon climbed the nearest pillar and scratched across the ceiling like a caged bat seeking escape. They snapped at each other, running brief streaks of flame at their prison.

### MEEREEN (OUTSKIRTS)

  


“What are we going to do about the dwarf?”

Daario Naharis turned his head very slightly to his unlikely companion. The bear's eyes remained at the gravel track ahead, focussed on the expanse of half-dead grass and starved earth that lay between him and his silver queen. _Their silver queen_. “Do,” he replied, “there is nothing to do.” His next words possessed a slight edge of amusement as he made an observation. “He does not like you.”

“That could be said of many,” Jorah Mormont replied flatly. He had no care for what people might think of him. All those thoughts had been lost long ago when he'd been thrown into exile and cast aside by his family. Almost... Jorah couldn't leave this world until he'd set things right with Daenerys even if all that meant was returning her to the crumbling city in one piece. “He is far from alone in those thoughts. Still, what are we to do? He is a Lannister, unguarded and loose on a fragile city.”

“I would not say that he is unguarded. Grey Worm will flay him and leave his skins to dry on the great pyramid if he thinks him a threat.” As for the city, _Meereen_ was a ruin before they'd touched it. One day the sleeping fire-mountain behind it would lay to ash whatever was left.

“Grey Worm is a soldier, ill trained to sense the type of danger the imp can devise. A man like him can bring down empires without the touch of a sword. Look to _Westeros_ for proof of that.” Tyrant that Tywin was, he formed a glue that held the warring nations together. Without him, chaos would soon spread through the realm. Daenerys should be there to drink its advantage, not lingering on the edge of the world.

Their horses turned off the path and headed directly into the rugged dirt. The dragon flew this path and they would attempt to follow – over cliff and sea if need be. Behind them, the golden pyramid gave a final flare of light before vanishing. They were sinking, following the gradual dip of the earth toward the _Great Grass Sea_.

“You should give the small man more credit,” Daario replied. “I hear he knows a thing or two about blood.”

“I give him a great deal of credit,” Jorah hissed under his breath. He had brought Tyrion as a gift, one he had expected opened and safely tossed aside by now. The man may look the part of a circus creature but he was every inch his father's son, albeit with decent touch of wit. “Tyrion has three talents; wit, wine and survival.”

Daario's horse pulled up closer beside Jorah's making the beast snort and buck slightly. Like the bear, it did not enjoy company. “I think the half man could be of use. I watched him in the pits. When he saw the queen on Drogon's back he became her creature. She has a way of turning men to her cause. That is Daenerys' talent.”

Jorah kept his suspicions all the same.

The pair continued North before finally drifting East until the sun started to tire and dipped behind them. The sand, now dotted with the first wisps of grass, turned blood-red against the sky. In the distance lay the first shadows of mountains but they were far off and difficult to pick out from the low-hung clouds that dreamed of rain. Daario had taken to singing, chirping at the approaching night in a language Jorah recognised but could not understand. It was preferable to the awkward conversation Daario had tried earlier. There was little Jorah enjoyed less and he was thoroughly tired of it after his travels with Tyrion.

A sliver of water cut a path through the ground. It wasn't much to look at but it was clean and deep. They let their horses rest and started a fire in a pit. Despite their obvious differences, they had a similar style of travel – _light_. Their eyes kept to the sky, watching for Drogon's black form until it was properly dark and they retired to their rugs and the warmth of the flames. Mormont lost himself in the dancing light, sinking further into the streaks of fire until Daario touched him gently on the shoulder.

“You won't find her in the flames.”

 _No,_ thought Jorah, shrugging Daario off as one might dislodge a fly, _she's out there._

The pretty sell-sword went back to singing, laying down to watch the stars. The bleeding comet owned the night, leaving a silver trail behind it as though it were made from _Valyrian_ steel tossed into the abyss.

### ESSOS - THE GREAT GRASS SEA

  


_Khal_ Jhaqo reached for his sword sending the string of bones around his waist into another morbid song. They rustled together, clinking and banging with the hollow notes of death until he stilled. He felt safer with the curved blade set across his lap, reflecting the roaring light of the camp fires that transformed the grassy hills into a city. A dragon sat opposite, her cloth almost the colour of flame. She was _fire_ , he thought, _and blood and death and power_.

The silver queen appeared calm, knelt on the dirt. She reached out, running her fingers through it, creating patterns that she erased and re-did, over and over while the camp writhed. Food and wine was left untouched to her side. _She does not trust me_ , he thought. Had he wished her harm, she would know it at once. _Khals_ were not like the kings from across the sea. They looked their enemies in the eye as they tore their hearts from their chests. _It is known._

“ _You do not eat?”_ _Khal_ Jhaqo finally asked, in _Dothraki_. She looked up with violet eyes. They were foreign – the eyes of ancient _Valyria_. He wondered where her dragon was. They had seen the creature dipping and playing in the winds that hugged the mountains. It had caught one of the great eagles mid-flight, clipping it by the wing – brushing it with a rush of fire before swallowing it whole. Sometimes, when the light caught her a certain way, he thought that she might do the same to him.

“ _I am not hungry.”_ Daenerys lied. She'd have gladly plucked the ants from the dirt beside her simply to have something to fill her stomach. Her power rested on a fragile gamble of fear – did the _Khal_ believe that she could call a dragon to her defence? Drogon was a dragon, fierce but unreliable. He'd come if he wished and for no other reason. Daenerys would sooner rely on the whispers of spiders. _“Your khalasar has grown beyond Drogo's.”_

“ _Before you are six of the largest khalasars. They joined our number many months ago.”_

“ _Alliance? That is not the way of the Dothraki.”_ Though even as she cast her eye carefully to some of their number gathered around the _khal's_ fire she saw the truth. The tattoos on their bodies belonged to several groups, even their features differed slightly. They seemed easy with each other, as though something more than gold bound them together.

“ _There are words from the East,”_ Jhaqo continued, running his palm along the gentle curve of his sword. He petted it as she did her dragons. _“The smoke is stirring in the water. Stars bleed in the sky. Dragons fly. The witches say the frosts are coming and that soon the un-dead will walk from West to East.”_

“ _Frosts...”_ she whispered, frowning and leaning in towards the fire. _“I have seen a wall of ice in my dreams and snow in the summer isles.”_

“ _Yes...”_ Jhaqo purred. _“The witches say the dragons see what men cannot. Tell me more about your dreams.”_

 _Ah_ , thought Daenerys, _this is why I live_.

The silver queen reached toward the wine and raised it to her lips, drinking deeply.

*~*~*

“What is that?” Mormont was picking at the wrapping on his arm, wincing as he tried to get a hastily tied knot undone. The fabric was soiled with blood and dirt – no good for the wound beneath.

“Nothing.”

Daario sat up and inspected his cup. There was ash in the water so he tossed it into the grass and wandered over to the stream. As soon as he went beyond the glow the air turned with a cold bite. He had spent most of his life riding this part of the world and yet he'd noticed the land shift of late. There was a new scent in the air – something he recognised from the West. _Ice._

He dipped the cup into the water and returned, sitting beside Jorah – which promptly earned him another grunt of disapproval. What they said about the Mormonts was true. They were built like bears and shared their prickly temperament.

“The last thing I need is for you to lose that arm, you will be no good to the queen without it.” Daario cut the ties loose so that Jorah could unwind the bandage, then he drowned the wound in freezing water. He didn't flinch. Bears did not feel the cold. He inspected the torn flesh. “Not so bad.”

“I know,” Jorah replied, finding himself another bandage.

“At least it didn't ruin your pretty face.”

Jorah simply turned his head to the side to show off a healing slice across his cheek earned in the fighting pits.

“Oh...”

There was a pause. A piece of wood collapsed into the fire sending a roar of embers into the night. Finally, they both laughed. They were destined to love the same woman and it was beginning to sink in that they were stuck with each other. Jorah shook his head and Daario helped him fasten a fresh bandage.

“She does have a temper on her though...”

Jorah could only nod. “She is _dragon_.”

“The last dragon.”

“Unlikely,” Jorah corrected him. “The Targaryen's bred like wildfire, men and woman alike. At one time there was a bastard uprising.” Though he was certain that Daario knew more than he pretended. Sell-swords were well versed in the armies of the world. Who had money – who did not. “Some say the _Blackfyres_ continue to thrive in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to rise against the world. Daenerys is the only true dragon with a claim _Westeros_ might recognise.”

“And she has dragons.”

“And she has dragons...” he agreed.

There was another pause in the conversation as both men instinctively quietened, listening to something on the air. It was barely audible beneath the spitting of their fire _but it was there._ Sure as his own heart, Jorah knew the beat of a dragon's wings.

“Drogon?” he whispered, standing up at once, walking away from the blinding light of the fire. Daario joined him and they both surveyed the sky.

“I heard it too,” Daario assured the other man. “The dragon is close.”

“It means nothing,” Jorah replied. “Dragons hunt a wide ground.”

“Do you think he means to hunt us?” They were easy prey, camped in the open with a fire to guide the great beast down upon them.

“Perhaps. He is a dragon. One can never know the mind of a dragon.”

Scales and leather beat the air again, closer this time. They turned as one, searching again. The dragon was closing in on them.

“I still don't see it,” Daario whispered, feeling the handle of his blade.

“Put the last of the rabbit on the fire,” Jorah replied, without taking is eyes off the sky.

“Why?”

“Trust me.”

 _Trust him_. Daario eyed the bear. _Is that not what his queen had done? Trust him_ and yet he found himself doing the same, returning to the fire.


	3. The Temple of Skins

 

### ESSOS – THE GREAT GRASS SEA

  
  


_Witches._

The _kharl_ had been collecting them, riding from camp to camp, pulling the screeching creatures from their stone caves and miserable hovels onto the backs of horses. Here they were, huddled around the edge of the large tent. It was made from horse-hide, woven together and stretched over a skeleton of bone. Every now and then the white structure protruded, catching the light of the smouldering fire at its core. Daenerys recognised it. This was Drogo's hall, mutilated and refashioned into a thing of putrid horror.

The hides were painted in human blood. It had gone black with age, leeching a scent of death into the air. Daenerys shivered despite the warmth. She made a point to look at each and every one of the witches hissing at the air. Her belly stirred where her child should have been. She'd have the world rid of these creatures if she could but these were not hers to slay.

_There it was_ , she thought, _the blood of the mad king._

_Kharl_ Jhaqo followed her into the temple and insisted that she take her place by the fire. There was no floor covering. In place of rugs she found dirt and grass burned back from the flaming pit. Her tangled hair fell across her face. She let the filthy strands remain as though she'd meant them to be exactly as they were. Daenerys could not shift the feeling that she was being caged, quietened by soft words and careful movements much like the dragon handlers had done with her children.

“ _What is it you wish of me?”_ Daenerys asked.

The _kharl_ directed the witches in their own language, setting them off about the tent, scratching through chests and clay flasks. A flap of skin on the makeshift temple pulled back. Along with the gust of cold air came the other four _kharls_ and a solitary _khaleesi_. The unlikely alliance was even more precarious at its tip. They were uneasy with each other, casting suspicious glances and keeping well apart.

“ _They insisted on seeing for themselves,”_ Jhaqo explained, as the five rulers took their places in the tent. _“I convinced them not to kill you and now they wish to know the reason.”_

She did not doubt it. If she had thought Jhaqo to be a beast then these were creatures from desert nightmares. Even the _khaleesi_ bore the ravages of battle. Her hair was plaited and hung down past her hips. It had started to grey; the silver was threaded through it, glistening as she turned her dark eyes on Daenerys. Her lips parted to yellow, jagged teeth.

“ _Great Kharl Jhaqo,”_ Daenerys pandered to his vanity, _“beyond my silver hair, what would you have them see to keep their knives from my throat?”_

The hissing of the witches grew louder. They started to throw bundles of grass on the fire. The green foliage crackled and smoked, turning the air into a veil of peppery incense.

“ _I have more witches than any other kharl. They mumble half-truths and glimpse and what might be. None of them have the gifts of a dragon. Knowledge will save the kingdom of the grasslands. We may not build cities from stone or leave relics for the ages of men to wonder at but we survive.”_

The perfumed air made her head spin – or was it the wine – or both? Daenerys reached to the ground, holding herself steady whilst trying to maintain the vista of a queen. She failed. Daenerys' violet eyes rolled slowly back as tears slid down her cheeks. First she saw flames, then the cruel eyes of witches, blood, smoke and the spotted hides of long dead horses. She hit the ground and lay there. An expanse of stars stretched in place of the tent. A star hung overhead, red and dripping blood onto her clothes.

The silver queen lifted her hand, reaching into the smoke as the witches poured horse blood over her, drizzling it as though it were gold. Her fine clothes stained and soon she writhed in the dirt.

“ _Does she dream?”_ asked the _kharl_.

“She does,” replied one of the witches, in the common tongue.

_Dream? Yes, she dreamed_. Daenerys found herself walking through the swells of a smoking sea. The water was warm, rising and falling around her, breathing under a waning moon. From the crests of its waves came a fog, thickening toward the land which encircled one side. The water crashed on glass, spraying salt against the black surface where a volcano's innards had found the sea. Fire and ice now met as water and stone. Their battle was put to rest and both had died – or slept, she could not tell. The moon turned red and fell from the sky, hitting the water with a wall of fire. Daenerys watched the flames approach. They shattered over her skin and fell as snow.

*~*~*

Jorah held his hand out to still Daario. The bear was slightly bent, keeping his head low as the set of wings approached. A dragon flew lazily toward them, taking its time to ride the air currents that swirled through the valley. Eventually it sank, stretching out its back legs first to take the impact on strong limbs. It beat its wings a final time as it stopped, pushing a gust of wind over both them and the fire – which was nearly extinguished. It took a few moments for it to flare back to life. By its light they saw that this was not Drogon at all.

“Viserion!” Jorah whispered.

The beast was a lurid mix of gold and red with black teeth lined perfectly along a mouth locked in a half-smile. He was smaller than Drogon and finer in form. There was something artful in the way his scales fit together and the patterns that formed along his crest which, if caught in the right light, looked like ancient Valyrian script. He was a beautiful.

“My gods – they have escaped the city,” Daario said nervously. The dragons made him uneasy. The first time he'd met his queen's' three children they had snapped their teeth and brushed more than one sharp set of black claws in his direction. Their attitude had not improved nor, he thought, would it have been helped by his presence in the dungeon when they'd been chained to the dark. “Careful, Mormont,” he warned.

Mormont was _smiling_.

The old bear bowed low, nearly to the ground before the dragon. Viserion was restless – _hungry_ but he eventually dipped his head, nose first, as Daenerys had taught him. Jorah knew it was safe to approach.

“How have you been, old friend?” he murmured, gently sliding his palm over the dragon's snout. Viserion made a strange, bird-like sound in reply, nudging affectionately back. No one had touched him in many months. The dragon didn't understand why.

“I don't think that's wise...”

“Viserion and I go way back,” Jorah assured the other man. The dragon was acting like a pet, eyeing the knight with its golden orbs which thinned into black slits at the firelight. “He used to perch on my shoulder when he tired of flying. I carried the damn thing half way across the _Red Waste_. He has not forgotten. Fetch the rabbit.” Jorah fed the creature the tiny offering but as far as dragons were concerned, it was the sentiment that counted. It was not long before it had folded its legs up beneath its heaving body and curled up by the fire, taking up half their bloody camp.

Daario stood and stared dumbly at the creature for quite some time. It was sleeping but he didn't trust it all the same. The air vibrated with each breath. Every so often, it brushed the tips of is wings across the grass.

“Sit...” Jorah insisted. “Believe me, if it were hungry enough to eat us, he would have done so already. He wants company, is all. Dragons are social creatures.” And Jorah was as good as its father.

Daario sat stiffly. “This is a bad sign – if one dragon has escaped, the other surely has as well.”

“It is likely.”

“They will ravage the lands, feeding. You did not see them in the pits. They were half mad when the queen fed one of the _masters_ to them. That one -” he pointed his cup at Viserion, “- crushed a man's skull in his jaw while the other ripped the torso off.”

“As you would be if you were chained up in the dark. I heard the stories well enough from _Slaver's Bay_. The dragon queen who locked up her beasts... She should not have done that. Dragons are not only her power – they are her heart.” He would have advised her against it.

While the dragon slept, Jorah pried off the remaining chain around its neck. He paused to brush his hand tenderly over the scales that had been dislodged. They were starting to regrow – like feathers.

Sometimes he caught himself staring at the beast – wondering if such a thing could be real. He'd been reared on tales of dragons marauding through cities, burning the world. They were monsters in his nightmares and yet, after raising three, he had come to realise that they were like any other predator trying to survive. Their evil came from the people that rode them into war. Viserion would rather be curled up on the rock in a sea-cave, watching the world die with plenty of fish and the stirring of heat below.

“That thing will kill you one day,” Daario sat as far away as he could without freezing. “You are too familiar with it.” The horses absolutely agreed.

The sell-sword's discomfort amused Jorah further. He was comforted by the dragon. “If I am killed by a dragon it will certainly be Drogon. His temper is matched by that of his mother. He snaps at things, including her, because she spoilt him so – yet I will not be sorry for it.”

“Has he come this way looking for Daenerys – are we close?”

“It is impossible to know.” It was just as likely that Viserion had been looking for _him_.

*~*~*

Daenerys felt the snow underfoot. Her pale skin sank deeper into it and in her wake she left bloodied prints. She was in a forest frozen solid by Winter. The black-barked trees had four feet of frost creeping up their bases and only the strongest of their limbs held a an offering of green against the cold. _Were these the forests Jorah spoke of?_ In the still, she could hear snow fall.

_I am North of the Wall_ , she thought, _in the realm of some other king_. Her bear told her the old stories of the North – the tales that he had learned as a child. She knew them all by heart and some before that, whispered to her on the bedside of the dying Ser Willem when she was a child. He was a bear of a man with warm grey eyes and a silver beard. His deep voice used to rumble through the house, filling it with half-forgotten times. His familiar scent mingled with the smoke and his eyes – they shifted between worlds like the smoking sea itself.

“ _What does she speak of?”_ asked one of the _kharls_ , leaning toward the twisting body of the silver queen. She was contorted awkwardly, sweating against the heavy, perfumed smoke. Mostly she rambled in Valyrian – a language that only one witch could speak. The young, surprisingly beautiful woman stepped away from the other witches and joined the _kharls,_ translating for them.

“ _She speaks of Winter,”_ the young witch started. _“Of trees and snow – of a wall made from ice dividing the land.”_ The woman hesitated as the dragon queen's tone dropped and spilled onto the air as hissing. _“She repeats an old prophecy now. A king of ice kneels in ash. The dead are reborn and walk the land.”_

“ _The stallion that mounts the world...”_ the _khaleesi_ licked her wind-blown lips. They bled, leaving a constant edge of metal in her mouth.

“ _All she says is, 'snow'.”_ The young woman startled as a _kharl_ dragged her into his lap. She ignored his groping and continued translating. The woman only made out a few words before she stopped. _“No – there is no more. She has slipped from dream to fever sleep. All she speaks of now is a bear.”_

The rulers lost interest, arguing with _kharl_ Jhaqo about more pressing matters – such as food and payment for their previous raids while the dragon queen lay half-mad on the floor. The translator escaped the _kharl_ and knelt beside the silver lady.

Daenerys was unable to speak but her eyes continued to see. She was overcome by the feel of magic in the air. Intangible though it was, she recognised the ripple over skin from the fire that awoke her dragons. Only this was stronger – gripping at her soul – pulling it from ice to fire and back again. The snow fell thick and heavy, covering all the world until there was only white. There... plodding through the wasteland... a solitary bear.

*~*~*

At some point in the night, Daario had drifted into a restless sleep and then fallen headlong into his usual state of coma. He was awoken by Viserion sharpening his claws on an outcrop of rock. It was a sound he never wanted to hear again.

“Good morning, princess...”

Daario held his sword in Mormont's direction with a cautionary, _don't start_ written in his glare.

“You were right about both dragons escaping. I spotted Rhaegal hunting livestock in the valley earlier. His colouring is better suited to the grasslands. He is not easy to see unless he's moving.”

An invisible dragon was not news to put the sell-sword in a good mood.

“Don't look so worried,” Jorah insisted, wandering over to the fire where, surprisingly, there was freshly butchered meat almost finished. “He stopped by earlier with a gift.”

Reluctantly Daario had to admit that the dragons were useful – as long as they weren't trying to eat the horses. Jorah tried to assure him that because they were raised with horses, they would not hunt them but he wasn't so sure. He'd seen the golden creature give more than one lustful look in his horse's direction.

Tracking a creature that flew great distances wasn't easy. Before long, their dragon escorts lost interest and flew off leaving only the two men and their horses picking through the grasslands and, later, the complex system of valleys. They were edging toward the coast where the ground crumpled. Beyond these hills and the sea were the remains of Old Valyria.

“Perhaps he was taking her to the ruined city?”

“Let us hope not, unless your horse can swim,” Jorah replied. “There have been horses through here,” Jorah added, nodding at the ground under their horses. He pulled up to a stop, swung his leg over and slipped off the horse. The tell-tale sign of a _khalasar_. A large one... “Something certainly passed through here - the night before last, I'd wager.”

“What is a _khalasar_ doing so close to the water? The mountains don't suit their horses.”

A glimpse of white caught Jorah's eye in the grass. He crawled forward, parting the crushed grass with his rough fingers to reveal his queen's wedding ring.


	4. Smelted Ruins

 

### MEEREEN

 

They had been left a morbid statue, twisted and mutilated in the centre of the catacombs. The ugly thing sat on the floor like a throne, smouldering in the darkness. Tyrion waved at his attendant who handed him a flaming torch. He held it to the mess of amalgamated chains, fused together by dragon fire.

“By all the gods in the seven kingdoms,” he whispered.

“No,” corrected, Grey Worm, “no gods live in this place. Only dragons.”

Tyrion straightened, turning to Grey Worm and Varys who'd followed him into this stinking dungeon beneath the great pyramid. Wherever he went in the world one thing remained true, those in power liked to keep their prisoners underfoot...

“If there were dragons here, they are gone now,” he said. “They have broken straight through the granite holdings up there. _Valyria_ was built from dragon stone – rock alone is not sufficient to hold them for long.” He sighed deeply. Daenerys was a dragon without the terrible mass of knowledge of her predecessors. He wasn't sure if that made her more dangerous or less. It was not her fault. She had been traipsed across the world, edge to edge since she was born.

“Shall we send out parties to look for them?”

The lion shook his head at Grey Worm. “I am sure they will return if they grow hungry – or if they so wish.” There was no point worrying about a dragon.

Tyrion let the ruined prison wash over him. He'd been in several of his own though this one was adorned with deep wounds – scratches in the walls and blackened corners. A Harpie mask lay in the corner – remnants of former prey. In that moment he knew that they had to push forward, to leave Meereen and head West. This place was a prison for dragons.

“An audience waits on you,” Varys reminded him. His hands reached deep into his long, silk sleeves. The Spider was as much at home on the outskirts of the known world as he'd been in King's Landing.

“Yes – of course,” Tyrion eventually replied.

### ESSOS – THE GREAT GRASS SEA

### CAMP OF KHARL JHAQO

 

“Can you hear that?”

“Yes – the blissful edge of a prolonged silence.” Jorah pulled his horse up to a stop in the valley. It bristled against him, pawing the ground.

It was night. The cold moon tumbled indifferently above while one of the dragons played in the distance, more bat than monster. The valley had deepened and now sharp peaks lay either side with the grasses pealed from their black skin. _Snowdrops_ – tiny, white flowers that bowed sadly to the ground, caught the moonlight transforming the carpet of grass into a nest of dying stars. Their horses veered to graze on them if they did not keep the reigns tight.

“I smell it,” Jorah added, more seriously. One hand fussed with the pearl ring. The trinket comforted the old bear.

“A _khalasar_ is nearby and unless the dawn has decided to rise in the West, those are camp fires beyond that rise.”

Daario was correct. They walked their horses, creeping up where the rocks gave them cover until they could peer down into the next valley. Both men retreated, swaying back from the edge. There was indeed a _khalasar –_ larger than any either of them had seen. It was butted up against every mountain flank including theirs with sprawling camp fires glistening like the web of a demon spider. The first tent was a scant few metres from them.

The cold mists descending from the mountains and the hot smoke from the fires met above the _khalasar_ forming a strange, churning cloud. Jorah wondered if this is how the _Storm God_ birthed – from a nightmare of smoke and water.

*~*~*

Daenerys was left with the slave-witch. She kept her at a distance, wary of the whispered words that her ear struggled to untangle. They sounded similar to Quaithe's murmurings but rougher, from a fragmented part of the world. The silver queen had been left in the large tent with the smoky air twisting in the firelight. There was no need to guard her – with pale skin and white hair there was no chance of making an escape.

“You must eat,” the young witch insisted, placing another plate in front of the queen. “It is not poisoned – it would serve no purpose. You are afraid of me?” she added, mystified how a ruler of many great cities could fear a young slave like herself.

“I fear no one,” Daenerys snapped back. _She feared the witches_. _All witches._

“Your magic is more powerful than ours – it comes from somewhere deeper,” the witch inched closer, sitting on the ground in front of Daenerys. Everyone knew the stories of the silver queen and what became of her _kharl._ His ashes ran with the winds of the _Great Grass Sea._ It is known. “Dragons are magic. They are the flames of the old world.”

Daenerys was about to reply when she heard a sword cut the air outside the tent. It slashed into bone and blood, before it was met with a cry of agony. Something heavy fell against the skinned wall and collapsed toward the ground. Both were on their feet at once. The slave girl ushered Daenerys to the far side of the tent and took a long, iron poker from the fire.

“What is happening?” whispered Dany, listening as the sword found another target – then another.

“The _kharls_ – they fight,” the witch replied. “I heard them argue before. They argued when they took us from the temple – when we passed through _Vaes Dothrak_ and brushed the edges of the _Red Waste_ and its cities of ghosts. They fight.”

Daenerys looked to the tent. There was only one entrance and it was awfully close to where the murdered man had fallen. “If they fight,” she whispered to the witch, “the victor will come for me.” She was fire and blood, power and magic. There was no treasure in the tent city worth more.

“That depends on who wins,” the witch whispered. “Not all the _kharls_ think that you should live. Some believe that you are the oncoming night. The if you live you will bring the long, cold death with your war.”

“Why are you helping me?” she asked the young witch, who stood protectively in front of her, ready to fight whatever came into the tent.

“My master says that you should live and so you shall.”

Another died outside the tent. Then another. Another.

“ _Khaleesi..._ ” The witch breathed, as a gust of wind kicked up the flap of the tent. It was stained with blood.

Daenerys, who had stood before the mob of Harpies only days before, refused to stand behind the young witch. She strode forward, running her hand over the edge of the hot cauldron as she inched toward the temple entrance. She was a vision of death. Her silver gown was stained with horse blood, her eyes near violet in the dancing flames.

The sword sliced through the fastenings of the tent. It was pulled roughly back. Smoke rushed out as the cold air fled in, creating a wind that kicked up dust from the ground, stinging Daenerys's eyes.

“ _Silver Queen...”_ the _khaleesi_ of _Lhazar_ grinned with rotted teeth.

*~*~*

Without warning, the camp descended into madness. The sleeping and dancing turned into a fray with swords catching the air and spilling blood into the grass. Jorah and Daario shrank into the shadows while the skirmish raged. They had no idea who was killing who – or if this was merely the evening's entertainment. Death was a part of the horselord culture. They lived to fight and yearned to bleed.

Daario led them along the right-hand flank of the camp, using the many skin-tents as cover.

“Have you seen anything like this?”

“No,” Jorah replied – a man of many words. “There...” He pointed to the largest structure – now burning in the night. The skins that wrapped its morbid structure had caught fire and someone screamed from inside. The screaming stopped but the flames climbed higher.

When they reached the tent they found it surrounded by slain guards, some charred by the reach of the flame.

“She was here,” Daario said, Jorah agreed. There were fresh sets of tracks from the entrance of the temple – two people – one being dragged – led away. They followed, dodging _Dothraki_ fighting in the isles between tents.

Some _arakhs_ swept too close. Daario dipped backwards as one flew over his head, brandished by a painted warrior with blue skin and mangled braids of hair to his waist. He hissed then cried wildly at Daario, swinging his arm back for another go. A broad sword erupted from his chest. He looked down, eyes wide in shock at the steel protruding through his skin. Jorah was behind, both hands on the handle. He dragged the heavy thing back, sliding it out of the man's body. The warrior fell to the side and Daario nodded in thanks.

As they followed, they caught sight of Dany's silver hair, ducking through the tents. One of the _Dothraki_ warriors had her by the arm, dragging her toward the outskirts of the settlement with an escort of guards. They were gaining ground when a dozen fighters filled the path in front of them. They'd happened upon _kharl_ Jhaqo's men and they recognised the Westerosi knight.

“ _Jorah the Andal_ ,” one of them said, stepping forward.

Jorah and Daario looked at each other, sighed in unison then lifted their weapons, they would have to fight their way through.

*~*~*

Daenerys wrestled against the _khaleesi_ but she was near twice her size and strong, dragging her as though she were less than a child. As they moved away from the tent city, the air grew colder and the night took hold. She realised that they were near the sea. Daenerys smelled the edge of salt in the breeze and felt the faintest memory of sailing upon it, rocking gently across the waves that would take her home to _Westeros_.

_Not tonight_ , she thought, as they came to an abrupt halt.

The _khaleesi's_ guards hung back, watching the city for any that dared pursue them. The horselord queen drew her curved sword and held it to the silver queen's neck. She spoke the common tongue well, hissing the words at Daenerys.

“There is power in a queen's blood,” the _khaleesi_ began, her fingers digging into Daenerys's arm. “The others plan to sacrifice you to the _great mare_ and stir magic that has been forbidden for a thousand years.”

_Ah – the witches,_ Daenerys realised. Jhaqo had to collect them from the free cities and desert hovels as magic was strictly forbidden. She flinched as the blade pressed deeper.

“If you are dead, there can be no sacrifice.”

Stray fighters from the city approached the guards and began to fight. The clink of swords was drowned by the steady breath of the _khaleesi_ whose blade began to slide against her throat.


	5. Walking Through Dust

 

### ESSOS – THE GREAT GRASS SEA

### CAMP OF KHARL JHAQO

 

Daenerys pushed back violently. Her flesh was hot to touch and there was fire in the depths of her eyes as she struggled away, hitting the dirt. The _khaleesi_ loomed over her at once, brandishing the sword. It dripped down her wrist.

“Blood magic is forbidden,” the _khaleesi_ announced to the stars and sky above – to her horselord god and the memories of her ancestors. The witch-princess of the old dragons had to die without ceremony. Let her unholy magic feed back into the earth and be lost to time. “Return now unto the depths of your smoking sea. Lie forever in the ruins of _Old Valyria_ with the stone men and screaming shadows.”

The _khaleesi_ stepped forward, standing on Daenerys's ruined dress so that she couldn't escape. Daenerys lifted her hands, protecting her neck as the blade came down. She turned away at the last moment, closing her eyes. She'd survived the fighting pits to be slain on the outskirts of nowhere. It was true then, they were all horses in the end – bled out and turned to bone under the stars. Would she ride with her great _kharl_ and chase the night into dawn?

A clash of steel erupted overhead. Someone threw themselves at the ground beside her, grunting as their shoulder hit the dust and all their weight was used to push back against the _khaleesi's_ sword. Daenerys opened her eyes and saw he edge of a broad sword above her shaking hands. _Her bear_. Jorah was beside her. He brought his legs up and kicked the _khaleesi_ backwards, startling her. The swords slid against each other with a shriek.

Jorah used the momentum to sit up and take another swing at the woman but his eyes caught a flash from the right and he changed angles, embedding his sword into the grass breast plate of the _khaleesi's_ guard. He must have slipped through the pack that Daario was fighting below and raced to make an ill-considered attack. Jorah punished him for such haste, digging the blade in deeper until the blood ran black.

“Jorah!” Daenerys screamed, as the curved _arakh_ came back down on her.

Jorah's sword was stuck in the guard so he turned wildly, extending his left arm in place of a sword to protect his silver queen from the _khaleesi's_ blade.

Her bear's blood was warm as it sprayed over her face and hands. Daenerys gasped as the sword stopped again, this time by flesh. The sound was horrid. The _arakh_ bit at the leather strapping on his arm and found some of his skin beneath. He groaned – spread out with a kill on one arm and the murderous _Dothraki_ on the other.

The dying guard slipped from his blade and died. Jorah sucked in a deep breath then brought the sword up. He slammed it into the wild woman, tearing through the flesh on her thigh. She buckled silently, twisting in vicious rage at the knight. They brawled, tearing pieces off each other until Jorah rolled them both off a small rocky edge which dropped onto a litter of stones below. One of them snapped the _khaleesi's_ spine. Her spirit evaporated. All her rage seeped into the milky grass that clung to protected shadows on the mountain range. _Ghost grass_.

Beside Daenerys, the body of the _Dothraki_ guard twitched. He stared at her with empty eyes – another set to add to her dreams. She sat up slowly and looked over her shoulder to the fighting behind and beyond that – the turbulent camp. The smoke poured from even more tents that had caught alight. Some of the _kharls_ had already stolen people away. She could see horses racing into the night.

*~*~*

Daario hissed when one of the men escaped him. There was nothing he could do about it now, he had to hope that Mormont could handle an extra player because the half dozen biting at Daario's heels weren't going anywhere. He tried to kill them quickly, striking cleanly at each wave of attacks but the more he killed – the more came out of the camp and tried to wrestle past him. This was a position he couldn't hold forever.

_Where were the bloody dragons when you needed them?_ He thought, dropping to his knee to avoid an enthusiastic swing of swords that clashed together uselessly above him. He was starting to understand that prophecy or not, wars were won by people, not pets.

That was his last thought for a while. Daario never saw _Kharl_ Jhaqo emerge from the tent city and strike him over the back of the head.

### MEEREEN

  
  


Tyrion and Varys sat opposite each other in the empty throne room. Everything was _too big._ The vast, empty cavern of the pyramid belonged to an era of indulgence that Tyrion doubted they'd see again. It was a constant reminder that this city was constructed by a race vanished to time, like so many cities clinging to the edges of myth. The _Targaryens_ were the last kingdom builders. Even if their silver queen conquered _Westeros_ she wouldn't have enough time to build monuments to her dragon gods. After her, there would be no more and the realms of men would be left to themselves. It almost seemed a pointless endeavour if you thought about it like that.

“Your father used to sit and brood thus,” Varys said, sipping water rather than wine. The copper echoed against the stone as he placed it on the steps where they sat. “I often wondered what thoughts occupied him in such times.”

“Nothing good,” Tyrion replied, shaking his head at the gold-plated ceiling. “I think I'd have done better in the fighting pits.”

“Well,” Varys's voice was slow and calm, like a serpent twisting in the hot sand, “I hear you were quite the celebrity. The imp and the bear. There is profit in violence.”

“Were you betting for or against my death?”

“Neither. I was in a filthy caravan headed for Meereen during your famous foray.”

“And what do you think?” Tyrion was hinting at the restless city behind the enormous windows. He wasn't sure how many had noticed by the floor-to-ceiling slits were arranged to allow special amounts of light in, casting patterns over the opposing wall. On his first day he'd wandered over and found grooves in the stone proving his theory that it was actually an ancient clock. It was night, though and the city was unnaturally quiet.

“I think Meereen and King's Landing have one thing in common – they're both on the verge of imminent collapse with a Lannister at the helm.”

Tyrion hung his head theatrically. “Does it make any difference if I point out that I've only been here a couple of days? Why are you smiling? It doesn't suit you at all.”

“Well, young lion, whilst you've been licking your wounds and listening to the unwashed masses crow at your feet, I've had my ear to the whispers. There were a great deal of them after that little display in the fighting pits.”

“You – you know who the Harpy is...”

“Was...” Varys corrected. “Hizdahr zo Loraq is dead the question that you should be asking is, 'who will be the next Harpy?'”

“Has it been decided?”

“Not yet. The Masters of Meereen are in disarray. That lovely dragon burned more than a few of their leading council.”

“Forgive me but – shouldn't we destroy them while they're disoriented? They almost overthrew the entire city a few days ago – I nearly lost my head. It would certainly go a long way toward pleasing my new queen.”

“The extraction of the Harpies from Meereen can only be done if you have pre-prepared something more moderate to put in their place. Failing that feat, and believe me, it would be quite an achievement, we are left with the task of modelling them into – shall we say – something useful.”

Tyrion lofted his eyebrow and drank heavily of his glass. “Should have left you in charge of the city.”

Varys shook his head bald head. “I prefer shadows to golden crowns and iron thrones.”

“Missandei?” Tyrion stumbled to his feet as the queen's confidante swept into the throne room. It was clear that she was uneasy at the two foreigners holding the seat of Meereen while her mistress was missing. Tyrion didn't blame her.

“Fire,” she replied, moving directly to one of the windows. “Out towards the _Valley of Souls_. Grass does not burn bright enough to light the sky. Grey Worm says it is an army.”

“Dragons?” Tyrion asked Varys.

“Perhaps.”

### ESSOS – THE GREAT GRASS SEA

  
  


Daenerys awoke – which surprised her. She did not remember falling asleep. Then she realised that the stars above were moving and the ground she laid on was actually warm and breathing beneath her chest. Her hands were sticky with dried blood as she reached up, brushing her fingertips over the edge of Ser Jorah Mormont's jaw, checking that he was real.

“Go back to sleep, _khaleesi_ ,” he said, in that familiar sullen tone she'd learned to love.

She could feel the pattern of his steps change. They were moving through rough ground, quickly scaling hill and flat alike. “The _khalasar_ -” she started to say but he cut her off.

“-is not yours, my queen.” It burned behind them, hidden by the hills. Horses spilled into the valley around them. Their hooves mixed with the occasional explosion as _firepowder_ caught the flames and burst into the night with showers of coloured embers.

“Where are we going?”

“Home, your grace.”

Her bear was taking her home. If this were not real she did not care. To die in a dream was better than the cold edge of a sword or there relentless flames. For the moment, her anger toward him was forget. He betrayed her, yes but he refused to be sent away. Whenever she slipped too close to the cliffs he was there – somehow – pulling her back.

*~*~*

Dawn rose. Jorah watched every tendril of fire alter the sky, claiming it as the night raced away, vanishing into the West where all cold things lived. His dragon queen was laid out behind him, tucked into the most protected outcrop of stone he could find, lined with heather and grass with his armour laid over her in place of a rug. He had nothing else to offer except the promise that he'd keep her alive.

The raging battles had dissipated but there was no sign of Daario. He hadn't seen the sell-sword – dead or alive which probably meant that he'd been captured for a bounty by one of the horselords.

“Don't you dare...” Jorah whispered, watching Viserion swooping above, keeping a keen eye on the fleeing horses. “I put in a good word for you.”

The dragon couldn't hear him, dancing in the sky. He was playful and free, rolling his growing, scaled body so that his stomach warmed in the sun for a moment. He was like a shooting star, reflecting every colour of the morning.

Jorah returned his attention to the leather straps he was bandaging over his arm. The cut was short but deep, nearly to the bone. He tied the fabric torn from his shirt tight and didn't dare remove it yet. It was the only thing keeping what little blood he had left inside his skin. The leather straps hurt but he persisted until there was no evidence of the skirmish aside from his blood soaked shirt. His queen was less than silver.

He took leave of his perch and paced over to where she slept. As far as he could tell she was largely unharmed. Jorah was no fool. She could easily turn around and send him away – have his thrown off the walls of Meereen or worse – forgive him.

“Why do you watch me sleep, Ser?”

He was startled by her words and rendered dumb by her eyes when they opened and looked softly upon him.

“I-” he had no defence. “I am sorry there is no fire,” he sat down, leaning his aching body against the rock. “There were many riders in the valley below, some looking for the dragon queen. I have something to show you.” Jorah helped her to sit and then directed her gaze to the triangle of gold catching the light. The Great Pyramid of Meereen was visible in the gap between mountains and just to the side -

“Viserion!” Dany's voice was suddenly rich with love.

“Yes. Your dragons play in the _Great Grass Sea_ as though it were their dominion.”

“You freed them?” she asked. Dany wished to call the dragon over but she doubted that he'd want to see her – after what she'd done. What kind of mother locked way her children, leaving them to rot in the dark?

“No,” he replied. “Either it was Tyrion or they found a way to escape.”

“Tyrion?” her eyebrows folded in opposing directions. Even exhausted and filthy she could still give the best look of disapproval on _Essos_.

“Indeed. He and Grey Worm rule in your stead.”

“A Lannister ruling in the ancient East – has the world gone mad?”

“Probably, your grace. The stars fall, the undead stir and dragons grace the sky.”


	6. Feathered Masks

 

### MEEREEN – THE GREAT PYRAMID

  
  


“Any news?”

“Nothing. The watchers on the wall reported an empty valley. The smoke is black – dying.”

Meereen's sprawling, rusted wall was very different from _The Wall,_ thought Tyrion. One was cold and built with magic made stone, the other was dust and blood. It circled the ancient city and at the ground, appeared infallible. From where Tyrion sat, he thought it a rather fragile defence against the immense dunes and fractured mountains leering in its direction.

There was no magic in Meereen, only suffering. Tyrion was surprised that the souls pressed between the bricks hadn't besieged the city and torn it asunder, leaving it a ruin in the sand like so many once-great outposts scattered through _Essos_. The whole land was cursed, hell – the whole fucking world.

Tyrion had taken to sitting on the ledge that ran around the apex of the pyramid. Mostly it was because he wasn't tall enough to see over its edge if he stood, as Missandei did now. Her dark skin reminded him that he was far from home. His own sickly complexion and matted blonde hair cast him as an outsider. He felt naked, out in the world without the purse of his family wealth to back his famous words, _'A Lannister always pays their debts.'_ With what, he wondered, would he pay his debts with now? Hopefully not his cock.

“I am certain that she'll return,” Tyrion added, looking up thoughtfully at his companion. They'd not spoken in private since the fighting pits where he'd saved her on a whim from the swords of the Harpies. “If the stories that reached King's Landing have a hair of truth, she has a talent for a survival.”

“It's not for her that I fear,” Missandei replied, watching the sprawl of buildings keenly. The current inhabitants were squatters in the wealth of the past. They were ambivalent to the buildings crumbling around them and relative squalor of the streets that touched the river. “I cannot forget their masks. These slaver cities – they are all the same. There is no hope to ever rule them. They already have rulers – faceless men.”

“Faceless Men are something else entirely,” he assured her. “These are men and they have faces. They have names and weaknesses.”

“Is it true about Hizdahr zo Loraq?”

“If Varys says it's true then it is. That he was murdered by his own kind is interesting in itself. The Masters are infighting, struggling for power and while they're busy doing that, we need to drag this city back from the sand.”

“We are in a desert,” Missandei stepped closer, sliding her hands over the coarse surface of the ledge. “The grass sea dies and the sand will blow in again. Do you miss home?” She had never met a Lannister. Occasionally she had heard their name, usually in relation to gold or debts that were outstanding. They West didn't deal in slaves but it certainly raped the ports.

“Hardly,” Tyrion answered honestly. “If I return to _Westeros_ and our dragon queen fails, the only view of the iron throne I'll have will be from a spike on the castle wall.”

Missandei had to admit that there was probably truth in that. “Why are you out here so early?” she finally asked.

“Learning from an old friend,” he replied. “He used to say that you could deduct a wealth of information about a city by watching. He was a man that did a lot of it. If Varys is a spider, my friend is a bird.”

“That is wise,” she agreed, “but if you are to listen to your friend's whispers you will need to speak the language better than you do.” Her tone held no offence. “I could teach you, if you like.”

“Yes – I'd like that.”

She switched their conversation to _Valyrian_ and they talked some more of far away lands and future queens.

### ESSOS – THE GREAT GRASS SEA

  
  


“You fuss too much,” Daenerys placed her hand on Mormont's wrist to cease him fumbling with the bandage. Her leg was wrapped in several bloodied lengths from her dress; filthy as they were, they were the cleanest to be found. It veiled a simple cut from falling against a stray knife. Such a scratch could not harm a dragon but her bear worried all the same. He hadn't dared to touch her neck. Dany wondered why. The cut there must be obvious against her pale skin.

Jorah paused at the weight of her hand. It rested atop the rags hiding the vile progression of _dragon scale_. He slipped away from her in an uncharacteristic action. Usually he lived for her touches. Dany assumed it was because she'd sent him away – left him to die on the edge of the world or in the pits of Meereen while she watched. She'd abandoned him and her dragons alike.

“We have no food or water,” Jorah broke the silence, his grey eyes finding hers. “If we are to make it back to Meereen we need to head out and take the mountain pass while the black ice has melted. Can you walk?”

Dany nodded. Her head felt as though she'd had too much wine and her limbs shook with cold but yes, she could walk. Jorah readied himself, sheathing his sword after cleaning last night's blood onto the grass. The momentary hiss of metal took her back to last night – to Jorah's blade dividing life and death. For a moment, it was the only thing that kept her alive. If she was honest, it was far from the first time her life had been bound to his blade.

“ _Khaleesi_?” he asked, waiting to venture into the morning with her. When she did not move, Jorah held out his hand as he had done in Meereen. It was steady and Dany took it, laying her tiny palm against his. Perhaps they didn't need to talk about all that had passed...

*~*~*

After many hours, Dany caught herself pining over the valley below with its silken grass and streams of cool, mountain water. Whatever promises it held they were frequently shattered by a _Dothraki_ rider barrelling through on a terrified horse. Each time she drew back from the edge.

“I never thanked you for your gift,” Dany said, waiting on a perch of icy rock.

Jorah pulled himself up to join her shortly after, pausing for breath against the ugly rock. He was more injured than he let on. “The Lannister?” He'd really hoped to see that one without a head after all the hell he had bringing him to her feet. “He was a drunken lark.”

“Adding him to my council may not be what you intended,” she added, helping to pull him back to his feet when it seemed that he had no further will to stand, “but you have inadvertently brought me a political advisor. One with extensive, mostly current knowledge of my home.”

“You cannot-” he was going to say, 'trust' but that word was poison in his lips now. He had no right to counsel her on such things now. “You _should not_. Lannisters covet only two things; gold and crowns.”

“That is what I am hoping. The lion wants to wield a bloody vengeance upon his house. For the moment, our goals are the same. What better revenge could be had than helping a dragon to take back the crown his family stole?”

He was tempered by that – barely. “If you ever decide to kill him, you let me be first in line.”

She smiled. Her bear still had some fire in him. “He's your gift...” she shrugged innocently, despite her demonic state.

*~*~*

When the sun was at its highest inclination, Jorah lifted his head, looking to the expanse of sky. There were no clouds – only black smoke streaking in miserable rivers, ruining an otherwise pleasant vista. _Essos_ was one of the places in the world best appreciated from a distance. When you got up close it was all rough and hostile, scratching and hissing against travellers – devouring civilisations whole. The horselords succeeded because they were more beast than man.

“Stop now-” Jorah reached to his queen, taking hold of her elbow. He'd heard something on the wind. The flap of wings. Dragon wings. “Your children, my queen.”

Daenerys turned. Her silver hair caught the wind, fanning wildly and – for the briefest moment, brushing Jorah's face. Three dragons flew from the fiery curve of the sun, dipping lower and lower. They made to land, stretching their thick legs out and flexing their claws before the moment they caught the ground, bringing the great creatures to a stop with a final rush of leather wings. They were so close that Dany felt the heat of their breath. They smelled of salt – some of it cracked and dry on their scales.

The dragons considered their mother and the bear, tilting their heads from side to side, leaning in and pawing at the ground, scratching clumps of grass free. Drogon was first to approach. Smoke drifted casually from his nostrils. There was fire smouldering in his belly. The Meereenese believed soot made its scales black. Jorah wondered what they'd make of Viserion's gleaming body.

Dany was near tears. She reached for Drogon, whispering to him as her fingers brushed his scales. They were both calmed by the touch and soon the other two dragons wanted their turn, nudging each other out of the way.

It was a fantastic sight – three immense beasts and two small figures on the edge of a cliff.

Without warning, Drogon snapped his head around and knocked Jorah to the ground. At first, Jorah thought it was an accident and moved to sit up but the dragon descended on him, catching one of its curved claws in the leathers of his boot. It dragged him along the ground, closer and closer until Drogon picked him up in his jaw and tossed him a short way across the ground. It was too close to the brutal edge of the cliff for Jorah's liking.

“ _Drogon!”_

Jorah heard Daenerys shout in surprise and scorn. His vision was blocked by the other two dragons, forming a gold and green barrier between them. He tried to say that he was alright but the air was gone from his lungs. He lifted his hands toward Drogon, unable to speak. The dragon leaned down again, blowing smoke and dust over his face. Then the creature turned its attention to his arm – specifically the bloodied wraps around his forearm. It held him down with a toe on his breastplate and set about catching its black teeth in the cloth. A moment later, he felt the beast's rough tongue scorch against his skin. It licked him like a rabid dog gnawed the scabs on its leg.

When Jorah had the courage to look – the _dragon scale_ was gone.

### MEEREEN – MARKET STREET

  
  


The food was stale. Sprays of berries and herbs swayed in the heat, marinading in the filth of Meereen's markets. They stretched from the river ports all the way to the forum, their smell and quality improving until the best of it filled the rich master's tables. Even these displays, Tryion noticed, were sickly against the offerings of King's Landing.

His spider friend paced a parallel path, keeping to the shade. Varys paused. Tyrion mimicked. He saw the reason why. A tall, well built man with the typical cyan and ochre robes of the masters. His were clean and neatly tied around a brass hoop. Varys lowered his head and tilted it ever so slightly – indicating that Tyrion should follow this man.

He did.

Tyrion was dressed as a merchant with robes enough to pass him off as a child. He slipped easily through the milling crowds, keeping the tall master in his sights. The man spoke to no one but used his hand to give various, unknown signs to people Tyrion couldn't pick from the crowd. Eventually the crowds thinned and the master took a left into the general streets. It was more difficult to follow now so Tyrion hung back, ducking between cover.

He was increasingly aware that the street names were unfamiliar. The buildings either side rose too high, hiding the landmarks from the skyline. All he could see was stone and sky. _Gold_. He was aware of the garish colour before the reason why. Tyrion had taken the next corner too fast and now faced the gaping voids in a Harpy mask. There were eyes in there somewhere. A face. A name.

The hood slid back, revealing Tyrion's lightly curled, pale hair. Instinct made his muscles flex and his spine stretch that final quarter inch onto his height.

“Ah – gentlemen...” Tyrion began bravely. The three Harpy masks slithered back and forth. One had blood on its gilded horn – presumably from the slaughter in the fighting pits. “I've come to negotiate.”


	7. Silverwing

 

### WESTEROS - **TUMBLETON**

### 130 AC

  


The remains of battle smouldered. Warm and wet, the ground smothered the blood and flame alike. It would be said, in ages to come, that never was there a settlement of more sorrow or curse than _Tumbleton_ , burned by the breath of dragons. One soared overhead, circling down from its perch among the clouds.

Dawn crept into the world.

Littered side by side, a thousand _blacks_ , one-hundred _greens_ and the innocents of _Tumbleton_ floated in the river, blackened. The screaming had not stopped but moved into the receding mists.

 _Silverwing_ touched the ground. Her enormous form, normally white as snow shone pink in the unnatural light. She circled the dragon corpse, mewling and puffing smoke onto the bronze scales. Many lay scattered in the dirt. _Vermithor_.

The female dragon settled down into the mud beside her mate. She laid there, waiting for the slaughtered beast to breath. His mouth was ajar, stained with another dragon's blood. When no life came, _Silverwing_ edged forward and slid her nose beneath _Vermithor's_ battered wing. She lifted it, as if to make him fly.

Three times.

He did not fly.

### ESSOS – THE RED WASTE

  


Daario's knuckles dragged in the dirt. They bled into the _Red Waste_ , adding flavour to the first hints of vampiric sand. The mountains butted right to the dunes with black faces of melted glass as though forged in the depths of the world and thrown toward the light. He could see the sun peak over them and a faint breath of salt tease a memory of the sea.

He lifted his head and found himself slung over a donkey's back. Daario was strapped to it with lengths of leather. Now that he was awake, his body burned at the arrangement. The _khalasar_ that held him was one of the united, now broken away. They were keeping to the shadow of the mountain, probably taking him to the _Ghiscari Strait_ and then onto a ship bound for _Slaver's Bay_.

Fine. He had friends on the sea as he did in the sand. For now he'd sleep and wait.

Daario winked at one of the _Dothraki_ women that walked beside. She hissed something vile and spat at him. No change there.

### ESSOS – THE GREAT GRASS SEA

 

The young dragon stepped aside, lifting his paw from Jorah's chest and tilted his head back, letting a flame erupt from his throat and into the sky. He looked over to his mother proudly and chirped, as only a dragon could. _Rhaegal_ and _Viserion_ parted and allowed Dany to rush forward.

She knelt on the rock beside her bear, running soft, white hands over him, searching for claw and tooth marks. _Drogon_ had not hurt him as far as she could tell.

“He – was only – playing,” Jorah lied. He had to gasp heavy between every breath. His chest felt as though it still had the full weight of a dragon on it. “It's okay – tell _Drogon_ – it's okay.”

Her warm hands rested on his face a moment more before she turned around to pet her dragon. They soon lost interest and started snapping playfully at each other until one spied a lone sheep in the valley and soared off. The other two raced toward the edge of the cliff. Dany and Jorah ducked as they took flight and followed.

“I'm sorry,” Daenerys said, returning to sit beside Jorah. He was sitting, one hand on his chest and the other on the rock. “I don't know what's gotten into him. He's -”

“Still young,” Jorah answered for her. He tried not to pay too much attention to his freshly cured skin. The rest of the bandages were quickly torn away and cast aside. “They'll never be tame, my queen.”

She sighed. “The old kings tamed dragons,” she replied. “Some wild, others born. Ser Darry always said it was magic that made them tame.”

Jorah could see words unsaid on her lips. “You think differently?”

Daenerys was watching her dragons hunt the lamb. “Trust.”

Jorah had to earn that word before he'd use it again. They sat in silence for a while, considering the growing pyramid of Meereen. Its echo was laid ruin in _Old Ghis_. Meereen was a pale mirror where a lost empire rippled in and out of focus before the -

“Daenerys?” Jorah lurched forward, catching the silver queen as she crumbled to the ground. She trembled, eyes rolling back and mutterings spilling from her purple lips. _The dragon dreamed._

*~*~*

The wall of Meereen blocked all other sins from view. For two days he'd carried her over the mountains and grasslands, back to the city of blood. The silver queen slept throughout, dreaming in what the old maesters called a _'dragon dream'_. Though many claimed to have them, only a few dreamers had ever lived in the world. It was the true madness. In _dragon dreams_ were visions of the past or future – not necessarily the truth.

She shifted in his arms, murmuring something else. He focused on the wall. Its vile, marble harpies were as much a part of it as the clay. Jorah was beyond the reach of exhaustion. His injuries were torn asunder yet he kept on. The door. The city. Another step. Breathe again. Forward.

Then the cool shade of the wall fell over him and he felt his legs tremble. He pressed forward – through the gates. The city swarmed ahead and he knew he couldn't risk the vile mass. Instead he took a stone passage to the right, one that descended into the guard pits where unsullied patrolled. They escorted him through the maze of catacombs until they ended in the dungeons beneath the pyramid.

Jorah, now with a dozen loyal soldiers in tow, rose from the depths into the palace and fell to his knees – startling Missandei. The bear's arms unfolded and the dragon queen rolled from his hold onto the floor. Jorah slumped, unconscious beside.

*~*~*

_Silver wings. Snow falling on forests with red leaves and bowing trees. Their faces howled. Knees bent and flesh laid beneath. A scramble of stone walls and beside, a forest of steaming pools amidst the carpet of ice. A dragon, white as Valyrian steel, descends a tunnel beneath the castle._

“ _Khaleesi_?” Missandei placed another cool cloth on Daenerys' fiery skin.

_The heat grows. Ice walls cry. Something else stirs. An eye of ice and lightening blue._

Daenerys startled, clutching Missandei's wrist sharply. She pulled away from the bed covers and clutched her chest. The thudding of her heart made her think of spears clashing on shields and the march of war. She shivered and looked around, confused by the moonlight against her silk curtains and the candles shaking by her bed. Their fire leaned toward her.

“Be still – lay back,” Missandei insisted, but could not move the queen. “You had a dream. Now you're home.”

 _This isn't home_ , Daenerys thought, _and it wasn't a dream._

*~*~*

Mormont thought he must have died. The feel of soft bedding, smoky-air and the distant wash of a sea could only be the veils of life pulling back to the abyss. It was dark. He mourned the stars for a moment before his eyes opened and he saw the ornately tiled ceiling, garish and patterned with a thousand angry harpies stabbing spears into dragons. Meereen...

“Seven fucking gods...”

The Lannister imp set his half-empty goblet down and shuffled forward in the chair beside the bed as though he'd been camped there for a while. “Oh good. You're feeling better then?”

Jorah turned his head and saw the very last person he wished to. “Make that all the fucking gods – and the Andals too.” He did a cursory check of his limbs. Most everything was present and aching. He could feel the effects of narcotics wearing off and promptly wondered who he had to belt the shit out of to get some more.

 _No one_ , apparently, as Tyrion picked up a smouldering tray and held it under Jorah's nose. The smoke filled his lungs and soon he was calm again, numbness returning to his body. He shuffled up and rested against the pillows, noting the clean bandages strapped around his lower chest. His clothes were gone – probably burned considering the state of them.

“The Queen?” Jorah asked, his eyes closed for a moment.

“Doing better than you,” Tyrion replied, taking a few heavy breaths of the smoke himself before setting it down. “She has a few scratches but nothing of note. The stories she's told – those are of great interest. I can't help but notice that you've returned short...”

Jorah pinched the skin on the bridge of his nose, making a bruise there worse. “Daario will show up – he has a habit of it.”

“Not if he's dead.”

That brought Jorah to the edge of a laugh. “I'm not that lucky.”

“Don't let the queen hear you say that,” Tyrion warned. “She'll be wanting to see you,” he added. “Though if I were you, I'd leave it a few days.” The implication that his already compromised looks were tarnished further by black marks.

Jorah opened his eyes. Tyrion looked different as well. Life in the royal court suited him – as did the wine. He'd shaved, washed and had the tailors make more suitable clothes from white and gold cloth. He'd been very careful to avoid even a hint of the Lanniser red. He was no fool. “You're not stationed at my bedside to counsel me on the queen's good graces...”

“It would do you no harm,” Tyrion started, but stopped as the bear's eyes turned dangerous. “No. I'm here about Hizdahr zo Loraq and his nest of harpies.”

Jorah pointed to the wine. “Pass me some of that first.”

Instead of reaching for the wine, Tyrion turned to the door and nodded. Still in a haze, Jorah realised that there was another person in the room, who now approached carrying a tray with a whole jug of wine and two more glasses.

“I didn't realise my room had an open invitation.” He complained but didn't refuse the wine from the bald man. It took him a moment to remember why he recognised him without the dirty veneer of blonde hair. “Bloody hell, is that you, Varys?”

If Varys was impressed, he didn't show it. The tray was set down and he chose to stand, his hands vanishing into his gaping sleeves as was his way. “I'm afraid the years have not been as kind to me as they have to you.”

Jorah narrowed his eyes, unsure if that was a slight. He shifted his gaze between Tyrion and Varys several times before breaking out into rasping laughter that hurt his chest. “I always knew you had fangs, Varys but I never imagined you had balls too.”

“I did not kill Tywin Lannister,” Varys replied dryly.

“No – course not. Not a speck of blood on you.”

Varys was calm. “Whatever you may think, I didn't arrange for anyone to kill Daenerys Targaryen either – not seriously. I trust you found the wine merchant suitably conspicuous?”

“Why are you helping?” Tyrion, Jorah could understand but what did Varys want with a Targaryen queen on the iron throne?

The bald man sighed heavily. He answered the same as he had to the foolish Stark king. “For the realm.”

Several swigs of wine later and Jorah was ready to listen. He inspected his arm while Varys talked. It showed no trace of the _dragon scale_ – only a couple of nicks where _Drogon_ clipped him with his fangs. Gods he loved those bloody dragons, even if they did want to eat him half the time. He wondered where they were – hopefully safe in the valley, picking off _Dothraki_ riders.

“Well?” Tyrion prompted, when Mormont gave no reply to their request.

He winced at the stitches on his chest and shifted, sitting up straighter to look down at the Lannister. “You've changed your tune. What happened to wishing me half-way around the world – now you want me at the queen's side?”

Tyrion realised that was fair enough. “Fate keeps dragging you back to her side. Man argues with fate at his own expense and I no money to pay.”

*~*~*

The silver queen perched on her throne. She wore blue silk from Qarth but her handmaidens had embroidered dancing dragons on every inch. Each one had a ruby sewn in for an eye that caught the candlelight. In defiance, the neckline was deliberately low to show the full scope of the cut to her throat.

“And who is this?” she asked, as her new advisor brought a strange, pale, bald man in tow. He had the look of _Westeros_ about him. Already she was wary. There were as many friends as there were enemies in that land and she knew not who to trust. _Trust_. What trust was there in the world for a queen? There was only risk.

“A friend,” Tyrion vaulted the steps to her throne and bowed respectfully. He knew to flatter royalty though this queen waved off his efforts and peered past him at Varys. Interesting. “Meet the man your knight whispered to – the man who kept you alive as a child.”

“The Spider?”

“Varys...” Varys introduced himself, bowing only lightly which seemed to please her more. “Your grace has grown from a child to a queen in the years since I last saw you.”

“We've met?”

“Once. Briefly.”

Grey Worm and Missandei shifted beside the queen. Daenerys tapped her nails on the stone throne. It was no iron chair. If she knew the depth of violence that had sat where she did now she'd be less comfortable. The second throne made for her late husband was gone as if it had never been.

“When? I do not remember your face from _Pentos_.”

“You would not. _Silver Queen,_ this corner of the world is my home. South of the free cities, west of here in the warm, wild waters of the _Summer Sea_ is an island. I was birthed in its city, _Lys_ and taken for a slave. Targaryen blood runs strong in its people after they were conquered. The streets are all silver hair and ever more beautiful creatures with eyes like yours.

“Before I was taken to King's Landing to serve the Lannister court I saw two young siblings play in the gardens under the watchful eye of conspiring men. Any layman can recognise a true Targaryen.”

The vague memory of a garden by the sea lurked somewhere in her heart. She'd been there in dreams.

  



	8. Lys

 

### ESSOS - **LYS**

### 286 AC

  


The winds of the _Summer Sea_ were fickle. Some days they blew warm, glorious air over the island, teasing its forests with the scents of all the world. They brought gentle rain, foreign seeds and clouds that hung along the curve of the water, catching the sunset in streaks of fire that may as well have been a dragon tail. All was peace and beauty beyond any song the poets of the West might utter. Then came the cooler waters, rushing out of the _Narrow Sea_ to collide in a violent storm. Winds raged. Waves reared up and crashed against one another, building wrath. The first gentle shore to meet them were the beaches of _Lys_.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Lightening flashed in the distance, catching the underside of the storm. Over and over until Varys had a guess of its shape. He inhaled of the wet air wantonly, letting it soak into his lungs. Varys didn't fear the storms. They brought, how did his friend put it? _Possibility_. Only chaos could re-arrange the world. The whispers were growing and soon they would start to fall.

Rain hit the iron tables on the balcony outside. Varys had many beautiful homes scattered through the world but this was the gem in the crown. An ancient castle converted into apartments and his, the grandest of them all perched on the top, fronting the storm.

His companion sighed and started closing the heavy shutters as rain flew in. They were closed so infrequently that Illyrio Mopatis had to untangle a wild rose from the one nearest the wall. Its severed flower head smashed to the floor and shed petals all around.

Varys made a habit never to drink but there was plenty of wine set out on the table, which Illyrio made good use of.

“You will grow fat, my friend,” Varys cautioned, pacing over the floor. He was silent – a spider, lurking furtherest from the candles.

Illyrio laughed warmly. His sell-sword days were past but his broad shoulders could still swing a blade and the wide belt round his waist gave him a slim if not impressive shadow. “And you – dry. Wine? No – of course not. You've nothing to waste your money on, Varys. More's the pity.” He poured freely. Drank deep. “How is it you come to be here? I thought that Baratheon king of yours kept your leash lashed to the throne?”

“I am gathering information. There are rumours that the East shelter the last Targaryen heirs...”

They held the silence for a moment – then both laughed. Varys picked at the grapes while Illyrio hunted out more wine. “Ain't that the truth... Well, are you going to sell them to me now or shall I drink some more so you can offer me a less-agreeable price?”

“I cannot sell what I do not own.” The first storm wind howled. Bruised petals limped over the stone.

Illyrio paused. There were two goblets on the table. One was his and the other –

Varys stepped to the door, shifting the bolt. “My friend, I brought you here to meet the seller.” He pulled the door open to reveal an older man with two small children in tow. Their silver hair and iridescent eyes were unmistakable. Targaryens. The last dragons. “Willem Darry.”

“Interesting,” was the first word from Illyrio's lips. He drank of the wine again and poured for both goblets. “It's funny,” he said, picking up both cups, “Ser Willem and I go way back. He fought me twice and the third, we fought together instead and found we liked that better. Willem was a handsome devil in his youth.”

The youngest of the Targaryen children, a girl no more than four, scampered from the Darry's side and played at the window. Kneeling, she scooped up the flower in her pale hands and watched its remaining petals tremble. A tiny spider hid deep in its heart. It shied away from her. The boy stepped further behind Darry, hiding.

“Oh yes, I was very sad to hear he'd met his end in a Dornish brothel but _surprised_ to find him here, now at your door rather well – save the grey beard and tasteless woollen cloth. Tell me – why is it that Northerners insist on wearing such things in the beautiful Southern lands?”

“A miraculous resurrection,” Willem Darry reached for the offered wine and lifted his glass.

They could not speak the name for the sake of the two children but Ser Willem Darry took off his black glove and flashed a signet ring. A bear growled back and Illyrio nodded. A _ser_ it was, all the same. _Ser Jeor Mormont_ no less. “To your health, good _ser_ ,” Illyrio drank to the Mormont king.

*~*~*

Hours passed and the storm threw every fury of the sea at Varys' house as though the Storm God himself took offence at their plans. Any minute now _drowned men_ would pull themselves from the waves and scale the walls...

The Targaryen girl, Daenerys, slept by the fire on a silk pillow. Her brother was set on Jeor Mormont's lap, gazing curiously at the parchment map laid over the table. It was a huge sprawl of a thing with worlds the young boy had never seen in his books.

“ _Valyria!”_ Viserys pointed to the land as it had been before the Doom.

Jeor took his hand gently and held it away from the map. It was a precious thing, more valuable than all the Lannister gold. “Quiet...” he hushed the child kindly. Viserys sat back and made himself comfortable against the bear. He was good as father to the two children and they loved him.

“We cannot sail directly to _Braavos_ ,” Mormont explained. “King Robert has his Lannister spies inspect every ship that makes port. They're looking for the children. Every ship – except yours.”

Illyrio smiled. “Well, it would be awkward for them to uncover their own smuggling ring,” he replied innocently. “The Baratheons aren't fans of Lannisters making more gold.”

Varys loomed over the two men, hand sliding into his silk sleeves. “You, my friend, have a ship in port readying to leave for _Braavos_ ,” he said.

“And you,” Illyrio replied, looking at the Mormont, “have two priceless goods requiring safe passage.”

*~*~*

Several days later the only trace of the storm were lemons littered over the lawns. Illyrio's merchant vessel was visible through the swaying, ancient trees. The park was on a hill, rolling down toward the water which held steady as glass. Gulls drifted on its surface, lazing in the sun.

Daenerys and Viserys played with the lemons, tumbling together while Varys and Mormont planned their future.

“I cannot stay with them forever,” Mormont said, in that stern gruff manner. “Will they be safe with this man?”

“Illyrio wants what we all want,” Varys replied. He knew the golden rule, never come between a bear and his cubs.

“What is that – remind me what a spider wants from this world?” His kind eyes still wanted to trust but knew they couldn't. Trust was a rubbished word.

“Peace,” Varys whispered, placing his hand on Mormont's arm to halt him. “When the time comes for you to hold peace in the north, at the edge of the frozen world and I in the seat of the throne, that man and his ships will hide those children until they're grown. You have my word. In the meantime, you will be a very wealthy man.”

“Give the money to the children,” Jeor replied.

Then the bear stepped away and returned to the children, sitting on the grass with them while they played. He looked younger, watching the sea. Jeor thought of his own child – how he'd tumble through the snow with the wolf cubs and crawled towards him with a smile. All he saw was his wife's dead eyes and his heart started to crumble.

Bears were anomalies.

_No one grows rich when the world is on fire_. Like squirrels, they'd started to bury their wealth – saving it for the long night. Dusk was on them and the snows were coming.


	9. The Dragon and the Bear

 

### ESSOS - **MEEREEN**

### 300 AC

  
  


Jorah Mormont lived off smoke and wine, keeping to the confines of his room. The skies faded from dirt to blue, passed under the shadow and bled until morning. On the third day he found himself in front of the mirror, inspecting the progress of his wounds.

He left the bandages around his chest untouched out of fear – not of what lay beneath but from the wrath of his doctor. _Witch_ more like. He'd caught her hissing things to the moon from his window more than once while the feathered shadows of crows passed silently by. On measure, the bruises marring his face were nearly gone and what he thought was a broken wrist was only a sprain. He'd have his sword arm back by the end of the week. In spite of this, he lofted his eyebrow at the mirror.

“You're still an ugly bastard,” he muttered to his reflection.

A soft knock disturbed him. He made some sort of affirmative sound before Missandei entered – to his great surprise. He pulled back from the mirror and didn't quite know what to do with himself after that. Thankfully she did.

“I had these made for you,” Missandei began, holding out a neatly folded pile of fresh clothes. Her large brown eyes said everything else. They were apologetic though he couldn't place why.

He stepped forward and took them from her carefully then nodded, smiling best he could. It felt foreign on his lips after months in exile.

“Tyrion was right,” she continued. Without all his armour and leather, Mormont was a softer man. His eyes were warm, a quizzical look in them. “You are not the man you were when you landed on our shores. As long as I have been with the queen you've spoken of home. The _Crown_ offered it to you twice. Yet here you are – on the other side of the world. I believe 'home' means something different to you now.”

Missandei didn't give him the chance to reply and that was probably for the best.

He was left to inspect the clothes. She'd brought him a light, flowing shirt in the style of the Westerosi kings. It was black with two fighting bears embroidered on its back – black as well but visible if you held it to the light. The sleeves had three gold dragons sewn onto the cuffs. They danced, tail to snout. The gesture was obvious. The next time he stood before the queen he would not find himself banished.

_Well – unless it was an elegant execution._

Jorah shaved the beard clinging to his cheeks and dressed in the new clothes. He returned to the mirror and noted the slight improvement. He had no more reason to delay. Feeling naked without a sword, he left the room and fussed with the new belt circling his waist. It too had a gold dragon with a pair of diamond eyes. These trinkets felt like a glimmer of his old life filtering through the blur – a hazy dream of when he'd ruled a kingdom of his own, far away among the ice and snow drifts. _He closed his eyes, lingering in the hall._ _The Mormont prince, they'd called him. Mormont king now – if he'd made nobler choices._ Jorah was under no illusions. He'd never be a king again.

“The queen waits,” the Unsullied guard replied to his question, extending a muscular arm in the direction of Daenerys' room. He may as well have parted the _Narrow Sea._

Jorah took the stairs, holding the side of his chest as he reached the top. _That still hurt._

Outside the doors of her room he hesitated. His hand hovered over the brass surface. Bloody harpies again. They infected every crevice of this palace with their wrath. Jorah swallowed hard. It was as though the intervening weeks had never passed. He remained in the dust of Meereen's fighting pits, blood dripping from his skin and onto steal armour, smouldering with the heat. A dying man beside. A hissing crowd. Their rage was silent. All he'd seen that day was the queen. Her faintest tremble roared in his ears. He could have sworn that for a moment, she forgave him.

“ _Come.”_

Jorah looked up. The word seeped through the door, clear as night. How did she know he was there?

The bear laid his hand gently on its surface and pushed. It swung, silent on its well-oiled hinges revealing the royal quarters. The vines that twisted over every window were in bloom with the sagging heads of blue roses. Between them, curtains of fine netting billowed in the breeze. The queen's attendants set down the various items they were holding, bowed and left the room. The last one closed the door behind Jorah. He turned, watching the great stone thing close. He was alone with the dragon queen.

_You'll never be alone with her again._

“Come,” she beckoned.

His new leather boots creaked softly on the stone. Jorah reached for the hilt of his sword but found only his hip to rest his nervous hand on. His sleeves were vast, rippling like the curtains behind the queen. When he reached her, Jorah respectfully sank to his knee – head bowed and eyes to the floor. He didn't dare utter her name, remembering clearly how she'd forbidden him from speaking it. Would it anger her to hear it on his lips again?

Daenerys moved from the window. He heard the rustle of her dress and closed his eyes to halt temptation. The wind was cool in his hair. It smelled of smoke, salt – ice. _Home_ , he thought before a length of fine silk brushed over him. The hand on his knee clasped harder as he focused on the cool of the floor where his other palm was flush to the stone. Jorah heard something – _snow crashing into the fire?_ _The first melt of winter?_ A dragon tear on the stone.

“Ser Jorah Mormont of _Bear Island_ ,” the queen announced, her voice steady, “you _will_ look at your queen.”

He did as commanded, lifting his head and gaze to her. She loomed above him like a storm – wild. Her tone gave no mind to the tears running the curve of her cheek. The queen had not given him permission to speak so he remained silent at her feet.

“I have it that you travelled to _Essos_ in the hopes of a royal pardon, that one day you might return home. Pardons have to be earned.”

Jorah heard the scratch of parchment. The pardons she spoke of were laid behind her, half uncurled on her table with the vile trimmings of the Lannister and Baratheon kings flicking up in the wind. He'd rather she burned them.

Daenerys walked by, too close. Her skirts ran over him again and he dared to turn his head that the soft silk might linger on his skin a moment more. She stilled by an old sea chest, carted from the _Dothraki_ _Sea_ to the rubble of _Meereen_. The dragon eggs were long hatched and now it held her official documents – maps, war plans, contracts...

“I trust,” she started, retrieving a scroll from the depths of the box. This one was tied in gold and sealed with the red Targaryen dragon of her house. Daenerys returned to stand in front of him. She held the parchment out for him to take, “That you shall take better care of this one.”

*~*~*

Daenerys waited, hand outstretched. It was not so different to the hand he'd offered her. Instead of dust, incense swirled through the air between them. She burned pine and cinnamon – salt and lemon. She'd have burned _ice_ if it pleased the bear.

She couldn't be sure how long she looked into his eyes. They were clear – like the _Shivering Sea_ and unguarded. Their secrets were hers. Daenerys found that there was power in owning something so entirely. He was a land-locked ocean and her – the fire at its shores.

Jorah cupped his hand gently under the pardon, sliding it from her hold. As he did this he stood, though she'd not commanded him. His free hand lifted to her face, rough knuckles brushing through tears she didn't remember allowing. Daenerys heard her name – or did he call her _silver queen?_ _Khaleesi..._ Perhaps he called her everything.

They were _fire_ and _ice_.

A calamity.

_A storm brewing beneath the curve of the sea_ broken apart by the doors flying open. Unsullied spilled into the queen's quarters. Jorah slid his hand from her cheek to her waist, sliding the queen behind him in a single motion as he'd done a thousand times when trouble stirred.

### ESSOS – **THE RED WASTE**

  
  


He had promised to behave himself and for that, the _Dothraki_ let him sit on a horse. Mind you – not much of a horse. Beastly thing it was with an ill temper that wanted nothing more in life than to bite anything that came within reach. Daario could appreciate that. He called it _Grizzly_ after a certain bear he was less than fond of.

Grizzly veered unexpectedly, snapping at another rider. The movement tugged on the bindings around Daario's wrists making him hiss and kick the horse for being so disagreeable. They were slowly coming to an understanding.

“This is the longest possible route to the coast...” Daario complained, to anyone that would listen. A slave girl did. She was tied behind a larger horse, walking with the caravan. He'd seen her like in every brothel from _Astapor_ to _King's Landing_.

“They're afraid of the desert,” she replied, eyeing the _Red Waste_ warily. “A dragon wakes there.”

Daario almost laughed. “There are dragons in these mountains,” he nodded to the great black peaks that rose above, “I promise you that. Three of them – quite partial to horse.”

“No...” the slave girl whispered, taking a few steps closer to Daario's horse. “The _Dothraki_ speak of a jade dragon. It is nothing like the creatures that feed off lambs in the _Great Grass Sea_. This dragon is _stone_. It makes dead men walk.”

That amused Daario even more. “The only danger lurking in that sand,” he assured her, “is the desert itself.”

“You are wrong,” the girl replied. “I have seen men walk with dead hearts and eyes like the moon. The come out when the sun falls and the land cools. They spill from the city gates.”

“Which city?” Daario found himself leaning slightly in curiosity.

“Yin...”

Daario frowned, straightening back onGrizzly. Those stories could not be true. _Yin_ was the heart of _Essos_. The greatest city that ever was since the first songs. Such a thing could hardly vanish and the world not hear it die.

### ESSOS - **MEEREEN**

  
  


“What is it?” Daenerys asked of Grey Worm, when he entered her room shortly behind the rest of the Unsullied. His dark skin was covered in sweat. He'd run here.

Grey Worm looked warily at Jorah Mormont. He still had doubts about whether he could trust the Westerosi knight. “Your grace – there is a plague in the streets. Many are sick – several have died. It started on the river but it's spreading fast.”

“Plague? What plague?”

“They call it _Greyscale_ , your grace.”

Daenerys instinctively turned to her bear for information. His words filled the gaps her advisers could not.

“A pestilence from the southern lands,” he replied. “It spreads from ships that have sailed in from tropical ports or – forgive me – those that have strayed to close to the ruins of your ancestral home. It is known to kill many if it gets free in the close confines of a city like this.”

She turned and crossed to the window, leaning out of the stone barrier to look into the city below. Even from this height she could see chaos on the streets. Crowds were converging – some spilling out of the great gates themselves.

“What will happen to them?” she asked.

“Those that have the illness will either die presently – or be turned slowly mad by it,” he replied. “Better for the desert to have them. There is no easy cure.” He could hardly tell her about the dragon so instead he shared the story of Shireen Baratheon, the infant princess. “Though it has only been shown to work on the very young and no one is quite sure what it actually was that worked in the end.”

“...and my people?” Daenerys whispered, still suspended over the stone ledge.

“They will die – master and freeman alike. Either you must leave this city or prepare to remain in this pyramid until the plague has run its course.” Jorah was worried – not so much for her as he was certain that a dragon could not catch illness but rather for the numbers they would lose from their army. They needed every single one of them if they had any hope of conquering Westeros. It would be a disaster to linger here on the edge of the world.

Daenerys turned to Grey Worm. “Pull the armies back into the vaults beneath the city. No one is to leave the safety of the tunnels.”

“There will be chaos...” Grey Worm warned her.

Her eyes were stone. “Meereen will bury their own dead.”

*~*~*

The nights were filled with wailing mothers, knelt along the city walls, praying to the moon and stars – the old gods and the new – the darkness and their silver queen. Anything that would listen. Daenerys heard them in her dreams. She imagined the second, gruesome wall of bodies growing. A thousand eyes stared back at her, accusingly. She'd set fire to them all and now they drifted as smoke, pressed down against the sand with the cool evening air.

Jorah sat on the opposite side of her room with a single oil lamp illuminating his desk. He was drawing up plans for the safe extraction of her army from _Meereen_ , the enormous, soft feather on the quill dancing against his hand. She watched from bed, unable to sleep. The air was thick with incense. It burned in every corner on the advice of _Meereen's_ doctors. Allegedly it warned off the plague. Jorah swatted at its drifting tendrils when they came too close. He was remarkably unconcerned with the fear that held the rest of her court.

  
  


  
  


  
  



	10. A City that Sleeps

 

### ESSOS - **MEEREEN**

Another glow started outside the walls of _Meereen_. A specialist team of Unsullied piled and burned the bodies. Fear was rampant. Those that were ill hid in the walls of their homes or in the many dark corners of the cavernous city. The young, old and infirm died quickly. Before the week closed no amount of incense could hide the scent of death that hovered over the city.

Daenerys, queen of _Meereen_ and descendent of the dragon empire, folded her arms crossly, finding her path blocked by one of her advisors. “Move,” she commanded, firmly.

Jorah lounged backwards, leaning against the ugly doors that kept the rest of the world at bay. He was supported, silently, by the ever watchful eyes of Missandei and Tyrion.

“If you do not move,” she continued, “I will have you _removed._ ”

 _By whom_ , Jorah was curious. There was not a single person in the room that wanted to open that door for the queen. At the present, he was speaking for them all when he replied defiantly.

The silver queen took several measured steps toward Jorah and the door. “I will move you myself,” she whispered.

Jorah wasn't sure if that was meant to deter or encourage his behaviour. He looked up at her with clear blue eyes and a complexion that missed the sun. “The city will turn on you if you walk out those doors,” Jorah warned steadily. “Listen... Can you hear them screaming? They're looking for a target to direct their anger toward. You _cannot_ walk the streets, my queen. You must do as the Masters do.”

“Hide...” she sneered, curling the edge of her lip.

Tyrion edged in, hands outstretched as though trying to quiet two wild creatures. “It started on the docks. A pirate merchant pulled in with something more than stolen wine and women in his hold. A stone man from the ruins of _Valyria_ escaped. One of the Unsullied captured him in the fish markets tearing through the raw catch. They killed him but not after they heard his story.”

The queen's left eyebrow had a life of its own, arcing up though her focus remained firmly on Ser Mormont. “And what story is that?”

“That the fires of _Valyria_ are heating up, your grace. There was smoke seen coming from several of the old volcanic cones. The islands shake.”

She shrugged. “I don't see what that has to do with me walking among my people.”

“They're rats, abandoning a sinking ship. If _Valyria_ becomes unstable again more infected refugees will hit these shores. It's the beginning of a disaster – not the end.”

“The same could be said of all the cities along the coast.”

“Exactly,” Tyrion agreed, taking another cautious step forward. “Very soon everyone is going to lose control of this part of the world – including the slavers. It's happened before. I'm working my way through the records in the great temple.”

“You agree that we should leave?” Daenerys asked. She was still looking at Jorah, searching his face for the truth. He wanted her to leave this place, she could tell. He'd been saying so since the moment she'd set foot in it.

Tyrion took a moment before he finally nodded. “We may have no choice. If we wait this out, it could take years, you may have no army left to conquer the seven kingdoms. You have to ask yourself, what do you want to be queen of?”

Daenerys' breathing was steady but her heart raced. She wanted to be a mother to the people of _Meereen_ and the other cities that she'd freed. They were her charge – she was their queen but -

_But._

She could see the answer as plainly in Jorah's eyes as her own. She wanted to be queen of the seven kingdoms. To sit on the iron throne and rule where her ancestors had. Even now the voices of her dreams circled her daylight hours. She was a dragon, not a mother. Fire and Blood. She could no more linger in a city at the edge of the world than an Iron Born plant crops and wait for the rains.

Daenerys stepped back from the door and turned to Tyrion. “Have the crows returned?”

He let out a small sigh of relief. “I'll go check.” When he was sure that Daenerys had changed her mind about taking a wander through the city, Tyrion headed to tower.

The cages were pressed bar to bar, lining the interior of the stone tower in a screeching, filthy design. There were many windows, all narrow and tall looking over the interior of the city rather than the water. Several of the ravens pecked at the bars, waiting for their chance to soar in the air again. Others sulked in the corners of their prison, happy to be locked away from the other creatures that owned the skies.

Tyrion found Varys by one of the windows, sitting at a low, simple table. He was working his way through an seemingly infinite volume of messages that poured in from the world. It was like trying to keep tabs on the droplets in a stream.

“You were always fond of your birds,” Tyrion started, steering well clear of the cages. “Do they whisper anything interesting today?”

“I whisper to them and they whisper back,” he replied, setting another strip of paper down. “Most of this is a formality; notifications, invitations, declarations of peace and war. Needless to say, it is neither interesting nor enlightening.”

“And what do you whisper to the birds?”

“Enough,” Varys replied.

 _Cryptic as usual_ , thought Tyrion. It didn't matter what edge of the world he found himself in, some things never changed. “Oh – you have a visitor.” Tyrion pointed to the window beside where a particularly ragged bird had made a poor landing. It was missing a toe and most of its good feathers. There was a silver sheen to its plumage.

Varys had to scoop the bird off the sill and set it on the table so that he could untie the note strapped around its ankle. As soon as he did, he fed the creature and laid it in a nearby cage. He didn't bother closing the cage door – the creature had no desire to leave.

“Ah – are one of these whispers finally interesting?” Tyrion asked, when Varys was rendered speechless. For several minutes Varys couldn't find the words. Tyrion thought that must have been a first.

“It's – from _The Wall_ ,” Varys replied, passing the message to Tyrion, who read it and baulked.

“Are we meant to take this kind of thing-”

“Seriously?” Varys helped him find the word. “The seal is good. Enough correspondence from that ugly keep has passed my desk to know it when I see it. Snow is the Lord Commander and this is written in his hand. If we have one – every other outpost in the world will have a copy.”

“Walking dead...” Tyrion lifted his gaze slowly, seeing how Varys would wear the words. He wore them true. “Really?”

“There are stranger things in this world, my friend, than dead that never die.”

“My ah – history is a little hazy but this all sounds like something the Starks use to go on about an awful lot.”

“You'd be right, my friend.”

And that was all he said. Varys could face the wrath of the gods with a wry smile and polite bow.

Interesting whispers from _The Wall_ were not the only items of concern. Varys was embroiled in a more pressing game with a distant shore. He held the final message to his nose – breathing in the citrus scent woven into the paper. There was no mistaking a message from _Dorne_. Even the finely printed text held an air of elegance that filled Varys mind with the memories of their wandering gardens, summer palaces and cities rising from the barren deserts. He could feel the dust lift off the streets and hear the ever-present rush of water coursing through copper pipes on every corner. Civilisation was _art_ to a Dornish lord.

*~*~*

“There are no more screams,” Daenerys observed. The crowds had shied away from the streets. The dead smouldered beyond the gates and sparse patrols of Unsullied patrolled the length of the wall.

“The infected have started to turn,” Jorah replied solemnly. He fought the urge to inspect his forearm. The skin there was tender, paler than the rest. “Your army is safe – so far. The _Dothraki_ and _Second Sons_ haven't reported any losses aside from the usual brawls. We could leave with a day's notice and-”

“What of Daario?” she cut him off softly. “If I leave here, how will he find me?”

She wasn't a fool so Jorah didn't bother pointing out the obvious – that Daario was probably dead or soon to be so. “If he escapes,” he replied, “he will have no trouble finding you, my queen. News of the silver dragon travels every corner of the world. He'll find you.” Despite Jorah's obvious reasons to feel the contrary, he didn't wish Daario any particular ill. “You miss him, as you should.”

Daenerys changed the subject. “Can I trust Varys?”

Jorah, who had been seated at the desk, took two full glass of wine and stood up, walking one of them over to her. His outstretched hand lingered until she sighed and relieved him of the goblet. “You can always trust Varys to be true to _his_ goals.”

“And those are?”

“Peace for the realm.” It was said without the slightest cynicism.

“Truly?”

“Truly,” Jorah assured her. “He is – an oddity. Varys is an idealist who serves the realm and any party that he thinks will aid in this cause. You will never own a man like him so do not try to. If his loyalty wavers from us then we have taken an miss turn, your grace. At present, he believes the future of a peaceful realm can only be achieved with the old blood of _Valyria_ seated on the throne, uniting the seven kingdoms.”

“This is the man that you wrote to – all those years...”

There was a silence between them. Hurt lingered in the air but it lessened the more Daenerys learned of Varys. She couldn't deny that Jorah's betrayal might very well have saved her life. The irony confused her. Jorah had visibly flinched at her words, withdrawing a few steps from her.

“It is. Your grace, the Spider has been shadowing you since you were a child.”

“I don't know how I feel about that,” she admitted, reclaiming the steps he'd taken. “A man like him has a game – I want to know what it is.”

Jorah bowed. “Yes, your grace.”

*~*~*

Varys felt the bear's presence in the room long before he picked his outline from the stone and shadows. There was something familiar in those eyes. They were cold, stained with ice bled from the sky, eyes that held a storm's fury. They were a mirror of Jeor Mormont's.

“I've seen eyes like yours before, young prince.”

Jorah, now with his broadsword strapped around his waist where it belonged, shifted his weight. Metal and leather strained around him. He said nothing.

“Yes, it'd be near fifteen years now.” Varys' room was small, simple and bare of most things. The moonlight was unfiltered, rushing in with shards of white that cut through the dark. Varys sat in one such beam, his bald head and silk robes rendering him more of a spirit than a man. “Though you may not like to admit such things, you and your father have a great deal in common. A fondness for dragons, I dare say.”

“Had,” Jorah corrected him. “My father is dead.”

“A terrible business,” Varys agreed.

“Killed by his own men at the edge of the world.”

“One must be careful with the barest framework of truth.”

“His men mutinied, what more is there to say?” The Mormont's were all about honour. His father would not have been at _The Wall_ among criminals and runaways if not for him. He couldn't help but feel that it was his own betrayal that killed his father.

Varys tilted his head in thought and turned to the Mormont lurking in the shadow. “I know _why_ your father died.”

Jorah shifted. He'd come to learn Varys secrets – not his own.

“Oh yes, little birds whisper many things. Your father whispered to me, before he died. Do you want to know what a bear hunts in the snow?” All Varys could see were Jorah's blue eyes. He wondered how closely they resembled the eyes of the dead. “I can tell you what it isn't. A bear doesn't hunt an iron throne.”

“I have no interest in-”

“You hunt it for _her_ ,” Varys interrupted. “In the words of your father, _'When the dead come hunting in the night, it doesn't matter who sits on the iron throne.'_ ”

Varys reached forward, catching the edge of a mirror. He tilted it. In a trick the _ghiscari_ were fond of, its light instantly caught a series of similar mirrors scattered about the room until it shone as though a thousand candles had erupted in flame.

The bear took up most of the wall, brooding. It was only those eyes that betrayed him. He'd have to be careful how many secrets he let spill from them.

“The dead are walking, young Mormont prince. We didn't build a thousand foot high wall to keep out a few marauding savages. Your father knew that. He and his men found something out there, beyond the wall, so terrifying that the lesser men would rather kill their commander than face the truth.”

More secrets seeped from his eyes. Varys could read them plain as ravens.

“What _exactly_ did you see, Mormont? You saw something and you've never told a soul.”

  
  



	11. Memories From The North

 

###  **BEAR ISLAND**

**268 AC**

The Mormont prince was fourteen when his father bundled him into one of the ungainly wooden boats, handed him a double-sided oar and waded through the freezing water, pushing the boy and the boat out into the current. Jorah looked up. Above, tangled around the head of a violent cliff were the roots of a red-leafed tree. _The dreaming tree._ There were stories of a screaming face cut into the trunk. Its hollow eyes watched the sea, facing the unknown lands of the far north and all the horrors that lurked there.

The boy said nothing. A true-born bear, he dipped his oar into the water. Snow fell. The white clouds, churning over the sea sank nearly to its choppy surface. He steeled himself. It was four hours to the northern shore in good weather – and this was the worst. _Keep your eye where you mean to go_. His father's words rang out over the hush of _The Bay of Ice._ The Mormont prince knew exactly where he was going.

Six hours of ice and storm passed before his boat crunched against _The Frozen Shore_. Pebbles the size of skulls in grey and black collapsed underfoot as he hauled the boat above the tide mark. He lashed it to an ice sculpture, solid as rock. His back was beaten by another rush of ice-laden wind. His only companions on the beach were the desiccate corpses of seals. Their yellow bones littered the morbid shore joined in death by stray gulls, pulling at whatever remained.

Already beyond six foot, Jorah was every inch a bear. He pulled the furs around his body and tightened the straps holding his un-bled weapons in place. Jorah scrambled up the first wall of ice and laid eyes on a land that had haunted his dreams since he was a child, hiding on the turret of Mormont Keep. The mountains, embossed in his memory as vague shadows on the horizon, stood firm against the sky. They were white in contrast a blue storm. Various peaks glistened where glaciers ploughed through impassable valleys. On one, a faint trail of grey smoke gave away a _wildling_ camp.

He lay in wait for the light to fade. When only starglow touched the world, he set out across the ice sheets toward the mountain range, following the map made by the ancestors of _Bear Island's_ throne. It was tradition, since the early hours of the _first men_. Those chosen to rule must first know what lapped at their gates. Every generation touched the frozen shores and delved deeper into the north, looking for secrets. Almost all knowledge about this part of the world came from frightened heirs, crawling across the snow.

Jorah wasn't frightened – he was _furious_.

The tower of smoke had transformed into a small ball of fire, tucked into the mountain. He focused on it, playing the scene over in his mind. _Wildlings_ killed his mother. This was the first chance he had to thank them for that. He touched the hilt of his sword. _Thank them, he would._

He was fast across the flat and used a pair of ice-picks, striking the mountain with them until he started to climb. Tall, light and strong, he moved like a spider. The wind continued to circle and the snow came and went. He kept moving up. Finally, Jorah rolled over the crux of the cliff and lay, staring at the sky. _The same sky_ , he thought. They were all creatures of the gods, old and new. How they must watch on and mock. _Mock this, then_.

The cliff with the fire was not far. He circled the ledge, back to the ice wall and his eyes averted from the steep drop. He paused at the final corner – listening for the sounds of voices or snoring. He heard neither. Carefully, the boy crept forward, edging his head around to glimpse the fire. It was set among stones, near burned to ash with a sad pillar of smoke trailing away. Its coals glowed, melting a dip in the ice.

Jorah pulled back with a gasp. His heart thrashed against his chest. Gloved hands shook. He looked again...

Nailed into the ice cliff with axes and swords were _wildlings_. Well, parts of _wildlings_ crafted into a bloody circle. Dead eyes, severed heads, hands, torsos – all hung from the ice. Jorah counted a dozen _wildlings_ , some no more than children. His gut twisted at the sight. _It was not what he had expected to feel._

One of the heads dislodged and fell at his feet. Jorah drew his sword, staying it at the head. Some might see a massacre but Jorah knew what this was – _blood magic._

His body ducked before his mind caught up. His knees dug at the snow, head bowed almost to them, narrowly missing a large sheet of ice cleaving off the cliff above with a thunderous _crack_. It rushed by him, taking with it part of the morbid display. Hooves followed in its wake, striking the snow above.

Jorah pressed his back against the wall, hiding in the shadow of the cliff. Those hooves shifted, pacing along the edge of the cliff. The smell of death was wretched. A strange sound filled the air. He supposed it was speech but he had heard nothing like it from the lords of the seven kingdoms. This was a terrible song, strangled by the night. It cut the air. The harder he listened, the more elusive it became.

The fire snuffed out beside him. Any trace of heat was sapped from the world. In its place was _cold_. Jorah had never felt anything in his bones like this – scratching at his soul – seizing his limbs and stilling the breath on his lips. _This is what death must feel like_. The eternal cold.

 _Wildling_ limbs scattered over the ground around Jorah's feet began to twitch. He covered his mouth with his own hand, quieting the gasp with a leather seal. _The dead were rising._

A moment later the cold was gone. The fogs parted and Jorah climbed to the top of the mountain. He found tracks and stains of blood in the snow. Something had stood there but _what_ he could not say.

### ESSOS - **MEEREEN**

### 300 AC

  


“Varys plots your safe passage to Dorne,” Ser Jorah Mormont said, after the queen closed the doors of her quarters. They were alone again, as they had frequently been these five years past. Jorah still felt that this was a dream that he would soon wake from. Or perhaps exile was the dream and it had never been? “I took the liberty of perusing his correspondence. It seems very likely that Prince Doran is willing to bankroll your landing on Westerosi soil.”

“I thought the Martells cared only for Dorne?”

Jorah smirked. “You know as well as I, my queen, that no land or throne is as simple as that. Dorne is a great nation with a vested interest in the state of the seven kingdoms. War is bad business.”

Daenerys caught herself watching her confidante more closely than she should. It was difficult to forget what Tyrion had said. _'He is in love with you.'_ How many times from how many mouths had she heard the same? From Jorah's own lips the confession had come – yet they had not spoken of it since. What would he do if she were to cross the room and -

“Your grace?” He was looking at her with soft confusion.

“Yes?”

“If Varys suggests it, will you take your army and sail for Dorne?”

She turned away from him and looked to the window. It was sunset and the night was clear. Daenerys thought of her dragons soaring on the wind. They were free and terrifying. She knew that she'd never seek to lock them up again. “I don't want to talk about Dorne,” she whispered. Slowly, she turned back to Jorah, eyes fixed on him with such intensity that the bear forgot to breathe. “I don't want to talk at all.”

 _Definitely a dream_ , Jorah realised. His silver queen would never toss military documents so carelessly to the floor or advance on him with such a look in her eyes. Truly she was a dragon – fierce and frightening as the dawn.

When she reached him, Daenerys lifted one of her delicate hands and placed it against his shoulder. He was warm and firm beneath the black silk shirt. Jorah was the opposite of Daario – everything she thought she didn't want and yet – and yet there was something much deeper in her soul that felt his pull. She'd felt it when he was a thousand miles away.

“ _Khaleesi...”_ Jorah whispered, a warning of sorts. His resolve was fragile and he could feel it threatening to shatter as she leaned into him. The barest sheen of material did little to protect him from the press of her breasts against his chest and the fire under her skin as her other hand cupped his rugged face. Many of the scars had been earned for her. “Daenerys...”

“I need to know if it's true,” she breathed. “I need to know if-”

 _She was in his arms_ , it was the only rational thought left to him. Jorah slid one arm around her waist, pulling her closer still. He tilted his head, venturing steadily toward her until his lips cut her question short. Jorah kissed her as she'd never be kissed by any man again. He kissed with absolute clarity. He kissed her until she trembled and he drew back.

 _It was true_ , Daenerys thought. Daario desired her, loved her even but her bear? What he felt was something else entirely. She laid her head against his chest while his arms wrapped around her. Daenerys felt a kiss pressed to the top of her head and then his cheek rest there. _They will write songs about this. Perhaps they had already. It was all the same song._

“I commanded you to go home,” she whispered. Daenerys mistakenly thought that he'd be safe there, hunting fox and rabbit at the edge of the world, watching the winter snows toss against the sea.

Jorah was a man of few smiles but he was smiling now. “I did as your grace commanded.”

“Your home is in the North,” Daenerys replied. “I see it sometimes.”

“In your dreams?”

She nodded. “I've seen the forests of frozen pine, the black stone ruins collapsed against the fog. There is something on the air – a song.”

He stilled at this. “ _Khaleesi_ , the North is not what you think. If ever I return there it will the final chapter of my time.”

“Then I forbid it.”

This time, he laughed. “You could no more forbid the moon for lusting after he sea. I will see snow before I – Missandei?”

The queen's lady appeared at the edge of the room from a secret door. “Apologies, your grace,” she bowed lightly at Daenerys. “There are men at the gates.”

Daenerys slipped away from Jorah who casually took the wine from the table and drank its entirety.

“What do they want?”

“An audience with your grace.”

“There are no audiences with the queen while plague ravages the city,” Jorah reminded Missandei. He was quieted by the queen's slightly raised hand.

“What makes them think that I will receive them?”

*~*~*

There were six men at the gates – sell-swords, all of them and by the state of their attire they were fresh from work. The largest dragged a trail of blood through the palace marbles. He was a tall, thin creature with limbs of pure muscle. Like a snake, he swayed as he walked dressed in the styles of the far east. The elegant green sash around his waist had been slashed apart. It was heavy with blood and re-tied to hold his flesh together.

When they reached the last chamber they were stopped by their Unsullied escorts and disarmed. Then, the doors of the great pyramid were opened and they were instructed to kneel at the base of the stone platform. There were two figures already standing by the empty throne – a large knight and Unsullied commander. A strange pair.

“They come from the sands around _Bayasabhad_ and speak only a little broken common tongue.” Missandei retreated slightly behind her queen as the palace guards opened the doors. She was joined by Tryion (who had a sweet scent of wine about him and winked hopefully at her in a moderately drunk fashion) and Varys who hung back from the rest.

When the queen entered, it was as some kind of crystal cloud. Her silver dress glittered where it clung to her figure and trailed along the stone. She wore a stone dragon around her neck with jewelled eyes set deep. Her beauty was formidable and cast a silence over the room as she took her seat on the throne.

“You may speak,” Missandei encouraged the men.

The tallest lifted his head but remained on one knee. His injuries were getting the better of him and he swayed uneasily, leaving a growing stain on the floor.

He addressed her incorrectly but Daenerys took no offence. “There was a great battle. Our company was ambushed up back of the _Red Waste_. We'd ridden all night – near one thousand of us – beginning to make camp before the sun. That's when they came.”

“They?” Daenerys pressed.

“I know not what else to call them. They have no other name.”

Daenerys nodded at Ser Jorah Mormont before he addressed the sell-sword. “Can you describe the men you saw? Their armour perhaps – or their banners?”

All six men shifted and the leader shook his head. “You mistake me, _ser_. These men carry no banners. They carry _nothing_.”

“Then what manner of army attacked you?”

“No army either. A -” the man searched for his words. “-swarm. People, no longer themselves and in wretched condition will hollow eyes and mortal wounds. They walked endlessly. Day, night eventually we had to sleep but they did not. When they reached us they tore our number apart with bare hands. We are all that's left. We rode our horses until they died to reach your walls. We beg you give us sanctuary.”

“You must know,” Jorah continued, “even if this story is true, this city is besieged by plague. The banners are over the walls.”

“Good _ser_ ,” the man placed his hand on the cold stone to keep himself up. “If you had seen what we had – you would run to these walls – to death – to anything but what came out of that desert.”

Jorah turned to Daenerys, awaiting her reply. She considered the man bleeding on her floor and eventually nodded. “The queen agrees that you may stay. Men,” he directed at the Unsullied guards, “see to it that a physician sees them all presently. More of their account will be taken when they are well.”

When they were gone, it was Tyrion who stumbled drunkenly down the oversized steps. To most they were awkward but to Tyrion they were a series of hazards to be conquered. “This part of the world is exciting,” he slurred before making a controlled fall onto a step where he was content to stay. “I've not been here three months and I've had dragons, harpies, stonemen and tales of the undead.”

“Better get used to it,” Varys replied, the epitome of dry humour.

“Post an extra guard at the wall,” Daenerys said to Grey Worm, who bowed and left the hall. “Meereen's walls are high. Whatever these poor creatures are, they will not make it into the city.”

“Monsters inside the walls, demons outside – there is only one course remaining to us.”

Daenerys eyed the dwarf curiously. She could feel Jorah's disapproval radiating off his person but for the moment, Tyrion's spirits lifted her mood. “And what, dare I enquire, is that?”

Tyrion lounged on the step, holding up an imaginary glass. He eyed it wantonly. “Wine, my queen. Wine until the world makes sense again.”


	12. Dead Nights

 

###  **ESSOS - MEEREEN**

###  **NIGHT OF THE DEAD**

Before dusk, three days after the mysterious sell-swords arrived in Meereen, something was spotted shifting on the outskirts of the sand by the watchers along the wall. Pyres of burning plague victims obstructed the view. One sentry leaned over the edge, peering through a cracked looking glass.

_ 'Alai! Alai!' _ he shouted, waving frantically at the movement in the sand.

Another took to the ladder, scrambling into the bird's tower with a lantern strung over his arm. He moved the ancient seeing device mounted to the the stone tower, swinging its brass face around to face the east. Tense moments died. Smoke thickened around the watchers. They called his name until he returned to the top of the ladder, pale as a wet nurse's milk.

The youngest boys were sent out with torches to light the great lamps along the top of the wall. They illuminated against the dying sky like a bed of stars rising too early. As the city looked east the light gave way, concealing the approaching dead.

*~*~*

“Come away from the window,” Ser Jorah insisted. He was in full battle dress, as was Grey Worm who kept by the door of the queen's quarters, hushing orders at his second.

The queen ignored her guard. She refused to run from something she was yet to lay eyes on. There was no sense in fearing the unknown. Ser Willem Darry had taught her to take a good look at your enemy. Study them. When fear melted into curiosity the battle was half won. Varys had the same mindset, joining her at the window.

“Whomever it is, they carry no torches,” Varys observed. “Armies can be seen for miles. It is part of the game.”

“Perhaps our new friends from the desert brought a gift,” Tyrion offered, not bothering with the window. He'd seen enough approaching dooms. “Does anyone have experience fighting an army of the dead? No – no takers? What we need are _wildlings._ I hear they do this sort of thing often.”

Ser Jorah bristled at that. “Unless the dead have grown wings, they will not get by the city walls. The first army to breech Meereen in a thousand years was -”

“Yours,” Tyrion interrupted Jorah, though is reply was directed at the queen. “Yes, so I was reading. The only trouble with an army of dead, if indeed we are to accept this fact, is that they don't die... We will be cut off from the rest of the world, your grace. Whoever doesn't succumb to Greyscale will starve.”

Daenerys eyed her newest adviser. He may be frequently drunk, commonly debauched but he had instinct enough for her. Humour in the face of demise did his counsel credit. “Advise me...”

Tyrion lofted his eyebrow, swaying on his chair. “Very well.”

###  **ESSOS – THE WHITE RANGES**

Grizzly was not the world's most obliging creature. In the time they'd been acquainted, he'd kicked Daario more than once, spat on him, bit his hand and rolled onto the ground for no apparent reason other than his own amusement at the painful crunch of Daario's knee. Despite these character defects, Daario found himself growing ever so faintly fond of him.

“Come on, this way,” Daario clicked at the donkey, who lifted his head hopefully and diverted toward his 'master'.

The  _ Dothraki _ let Daario walk. His hands were bound in front with strong cord. Four days of play had loosened that significantly though he made every effort to moan about its biting grip. The  _ Dothraki _ were thoroughly sick of him, pushing him away. They unwisely let him drifted further toward the back of the caravan with the lazy guards. He'd stolen several things from them, including a modest dagger.

Ahead, the  _ White Ranges _ started to thin. He'd seen a few watch towers perched in their peaks and realised that they must be light houses and the sea, therefore, on their opposing flanks. His captors were terrified of the  _ Red Waste  _ which meant they were probably about to take a mountain pass and head on into  _ Old Ghis. _

He was correct. The sand became gravel and then steeply inclined along a precarious track. Cool streams ran down the faces of the mountains fed by evening mists which tore obscene forms into the rock. Many  _ Dothraki _ stopped to pray at the pools of water caught in these morbid scenes, throwing it over their faces. His physically immense captor strode into the depths of one pool, lifting his huge arms up toward the bleeding sky. A hundred beads made from the bones of his ancestors rattled, rustling like the tail of a desert snake. Daario watched, enamoured by the sight. Living with the  _ Dothraki _ was a glimpse at history. Nothing had changed for these people in ten thousand years. He wondered if their gods still listened to their whispered prayers...

Daario attention was caught by a twisted figure of sandstone. It reached in three ragged arms toward the sky. A solitary hole watched the approaching night. He walked Grizzly toward it so that he could lay his bound hands upon the stone and whisper a prayer of his own – not to the gods for naturally they cared nothing for the lives of men. He prayed to the ghosts lurking in the stone, daring them to come and play.

The ocean lay on the other side of the  _ White Ranges _ . It appeared all at once, stretching north, south and west as far as they could see. Daario wondered how it had been possible to ever lose something as vast and beautiful as this. The  _ Gulf of Grief  _ shone for them. It lapped gently at the sandstone shores, dotted with fragments of the  _ Ghiscari  _ civilisation. The most formidable were the ruins of  _ Old Ghis,  _ black and vengeful where they embraced the harbour.

Pirates and slavers shared the water, tracking the dangerous currents where the bones of ships made reefs beneath the waves. The  _ Dothraki _ had plans to trade him to one of them. Daario would rather steal a ship of his own, if he could manage it.

He was taken from thought by Grizzly pulling wildly to the left, near throwing him off. There was no one near him – no cause aside from...

_ Oh. _

Daario saw what Grizzly must have heard. Perched and near-perfectly hidden against the white rock was  _ Viserion _ . The dragon stood out against the grasslands of the  _ Dothraki Sea _ but here, with nothing but torn sandstone mountains, he may as well have been a natural sculpture.  _ 'Don't even think it!' _ he hissed under his breath, when he saw its golden eyes settle on Grizzly.

###  **ESSOS - MEEREEN**

“Steady...” Jorah rested his hand against Grey Worm's chest, holding the eager Unsullied commander back from the edge of Meereen's wall.

Smoke robbed the night of a moon. Directly beneath Jorah and his men was a writhing mass. It was the sound of them, more than anything. They thrashed mutely against Meereen's walls with fists, bashing dead limbs until they broke. A body would fall. Another climb over it. Soon they were higher like a black tide, inching up a pier.

At first there had been less than a dozen but those numbers swelled with the night. More arrived every moment and the Unsullied guard stopped counting at three thousand. Now it was impossible to know. The stories of dead cities in the sand were beginning to make a great deal of sense.

“Bring them out,” Jorah nodded at Grey Worm.

Unsullied winched vats of smouldering oil to the wall. On Grey Worm's command, the ropes were cut and the urns allowed to tip. Their contents spilled over the wall, raining onto the mob below. Jorah's men watched, nodding at each other. Jorah lifted his hand. Every eye at the wall was on him. He let the creatures below have a moment then he lowered his hand to the stone. Flaming arrows followed, bowing over the edge. They hit the oil-soaked bodies, instantly catching alight.

Jorah pulled back as flames rushed up the wall. Their heat blinded him. It roared and consumed in spirals of flame as though emerging from _Valyria_ itself. “Gods...” he hissed, as his armour heated alarmingly against his skin. Slowly it died, falling back beneath the edge of the wall. He and Grey Worm followed it, returning to their posts.

Beneath, the world was alive with flame. The dead army at their gates shuffled. Limbs, aflame, returned to their task. Many fell, becoming ash. More moved in on them, taking their place.

“It's not possible,” whispered Grey Worm. He and Jorah were transfixed by what the sudden light revealed. As far as they could see into the night, dead men walked. The dunes were black. Ten thousand? Twenty? Who could tell? “They will over run the walls.”

Jorah nodded. “I think you are right.”

*~*~*

“They are not dead,” Varys assured the rattled men. Ser Jorah Mormont and Grey Worm would not settle, pacing endlessly around the stone room. They were men of war and they could feel the enemy quite literally at the gates. “I have been speaking to our new friends from _Bayasabhad._ One of them fought a 'dead walker', as you so aptly name them, except that they are _not_.”

“You did not see what we saw...”

“Our eyes oft deceive us,” Varys replied to Mormont. “I have no doubt that what you saw is the answer to thousands of years of speculation. Whispers occasionally reach me that I can't explain – stories that, upon first hearing, seem impossible.”

“Possible or impossible, the dead are at our gates.”

“Ser Jorah is correct,” Grey Worm spoke steadily. His hand gripped his spear too hard tonight, his knuckles white so that his heart stayed steady. “These men make no sound. Feel no pain. Move as ants swarming on dead beast.”

Varys was quiet. He sat near Tyrion, who was sharpening a small battleaxe. There was no armour to fit him yet so he strapped his body in the thickest leather hide that he could find. The spider did not bother. Leather and steel were no match for plague. “They have _Greenfever_.”

“Are we to be besieged by every plague in this world?” Daenerys shook her head. “This city must be cursed.” _Or perhaps she had brought the curse?_

“The great lands of the south; _Sothoryos, Ulthos, Moraq_ and even the _Shadowlands_ are all awash with magic and pestilence. There are good reasons why the horselords wander the desert plains, never seeking a home and your ancestors took up on an island that they could control. These cities are temporary, bursting into such grand life before blackening in death like a rose on a vine.”

“Dead, cursed or sick, they will overrun this city before the night is done,” Jorah paced toward his queen, imploring her with his gaze alone. She must listen to haste. “To linger here will be our death. We have ships, your grace. The port is not lost to us.”

There were no better ideas to be had, so they cleared the streets and readied the ships. They took only gold, jewels, maps and people. It was probably true that no one had readied a fleet as fast but then, with death rapping on the walls, the men were motivated. The poor of Meereen watched from dark windows as ship after ship broke free of their ropes and floated out into the bay. Their sales were unlatched and they caught the filthy, smoke-stained air, turning to the south.

Daenerys was lingering on the dock. The water was black and marred by ash. Ser Jorah was not far, barking orders at the men packing her ship. Missandei, Tyrion and Varys were on board – the spider perched against one of the rails looking back to the city with a concerning interest. Daenerys followed his gaze and saw what held his eye.

The lights on part of the city wall had gone out.


	13. Winds from the Doom

 

###  **ESSOS - MEEREEN**

Another light died.

Then another.

_Another._

Until Meereen's impenetrable wall fell dark. The bells rang, carelessly knocked aside by a black surge that vaulted the wall and spilled into the streets. A lull of silence followed. Daenerys reached for Jorah. He was there, half a step from her. She clutched his arm gently, both of them standing against the smoke.

“We have to leave,” he said, lingering a moment more before he turned and growled at the ships' men to cut the ropes. There were still Meereenese running for the docks, hurling their bodies toward fleet but there was no time to wait for them. Jorah walked Daenerys onto the boat himself, standing with her by the rail as the vessel was tugged back from the wharf. The waters absorbed it, dragging its heavy body into the open straight. Not fast enough for Jorah... He leaned over the rail, squinting through the night at the city.

“What do you see?” the queen whispered. She felt his arm around her back and his hand resting on her hip ready to pull her away from the edge at a moment's notice.

“Behind the markets,” he replied. “Watch...”

She did, looking past the frightened Meereenese. At the far end of the street Dany noticed the darkness thicken. It was not shadows playing havoc with the street – it was a surge of bodies, blackened and aimless, stumbling toward the docks where several ships were freeing themselves. The screaming started all at once. The few civilians trying to run were caught, turning as cold hands threw them to the dirt. Unsullied guards advanced, unsheathing knives and spears. Jorah called out to them in alarm.

“The ship!” his voice cut through the air like ice. “Get to the ships!” They obeyed, fleeing their posts and scampering to the final vessels as the first dead men found the edge of the dock. “They're not going to make it...” Jorah felt their own ship's sails fill and the ship lurch into the wind.

“Do something!” Daenerys commanded in alarm. She leaned over the rail, moving out of his hold.

“I cannot!” he replied. She spun around and grabbed him by both hands, her rage more than her strength pushing him back up against the side of the ship. The wind caught in his hair and he smelled the first hint of fresh salt. “Daenerys...”

*~*~*

The last Unsullied guard in Meereen raced down the dock. It was an enormous construction of wood and rock, reaching out into the tides that waxed and waned ten metres twice a day. Today the water was high, lapping right up at the edge of the ancient planks. Like most slaves from Astapor, he couldn't swim and though Unsullied weren't supposed to feel fear, he'd always eyed the waves with a supernatural awe reminiscent of _fear_.

He stumbled, turned and glanced over his shoulder.

Immediately behind him was a mad creature, silently pursuing at a run. Half its face was burned. The other side had a sickly green tinge to it, dead with gangrene. Its one good eye was focused on him with sole intent.

The Unsullied stopped, doing as he was taught. He held his ground, bringing his spear around in a brace. A second he waited. Half a minute and then _crash._ The full momentum of the creature hit the body of his spear. He lunged forward against it, pushing the beast back. Before it could resume its kill, the Unsullied swung his spear and knocked the creature clean off the wharf into the sea where it sank immediately.

He ran again, dropping his spear as he came within metres of the last ship. It was pulling away, its ropes carelessly dragging in the sea.

Without hesitation, the Unsullied flung himself into the whim of the sea. Arms outstretched, they waited for the brush of rope.

*~*~*

Morning broke over Meereen like the bleeding eye of an indifferent god, peeking at the world. Meereen's stone blushed. Fresh blood welled up in furrows on the wall, gradually sinking into the porous stone. The great pyramid lorded above the empty city. It lay silent between the mountains and the sea.

*~*~*

Ser Jorah Mormont watched over the silver queen as she slept. They were on the ship's deck, covered in a faint sheen of dew from the night. While Jorah lounged in the enormous wooden seat built into the starboard section of the boat, she laid across it, her head against his thigh. The queen's attendants had brought them blankets in the night when it became clear the queen would not leave while ever the coast was in sight. So here they waited.

They were homeless once again. Considering they had spent most of their time together on the edge of survival, Jorah found that he did not feel nearly as much concern as he probably should. They still had an army – holdings in _Slaver's Bay_ and more friends than ever. He'd rather be adrift on the ocean than lost, wandering the _Red Waste_.

“Where are we?” Daenerys stirred, eyes full of sleep.

“ _Slaver's Bay,_ your grace,” he replied. As far as anyone could see was water. Today it was crystal and perfect. There could not be a more beautiful sight. “We are headed to Yunkaifor suppliers and to warn them. Varys is already sending birds out to suggest the people of Yunkaiand Astaporjoin your army, take to their ships and sail with us to Volantis. We have friends there that will see us across the _Summer Sea_ and onto Dorne. Two of your dragons were spotted last night, following our ships.”

“Only two?” she whispered.

“Yes, though it was dark and cloudy – there may have been three.”

Her heart warmed at. “If we take the _Second Sons_ from Astapor the city will likely fall back into slavery,” Daenerys pointed out.

“Indeed it might,” he agreed. “Our offer is to all. If the people of Astapor wish to remain free they can take their chances on the sea with us. Staying with the masters is their own choice, my queen. This part of the world has nothing further to offer.”

Dany knew that he was right. _Essos_ rebelled against her ancestors, carving out a future for itself. It was a fruitless cause to linger. She lay her head back down on Jorah's thigh and felt his rough hand gently run through her hair. Daario used to do that as they waited for morning. In reply she'd turn and lay over his smooth chest, kissing him slowly. His kisses were nothing like those of her bear.

###  **ESSOS – OLD GHIS**

 

Daario kept one eye out for the dragon. Every now and then it swooped to a new perch, hiding in the mountains.

Glass littered the sand around the city. Five thousand years had tumbled the shards into smooth, almost aquatic forms. Daario picked up a beautiful specimen. It awed him that such horror and rage could make something divine. He tried to imagine a fully grown dragon bearing down on him, torn wings outstretched, a glow deep in its throat as it roared. He showed the dragon glass to Grizzly but the donkey spat at him and sauntered on.

Old Ghis was a pirate strong hold. The scourge of the sea had resurrected the ruins from ash. Like spiders, they draped cloth over the hollowed out buildings and transformed them into a second rate sea village. Even the jetties had been rebuilt with black stone. Swords and mangled armour jutted out from the awkward construction. Every now and then a human bone glistened in the sun. The stories told of fields of skulls and sulphur but all Daario saw was sand and ash.  _Fire and Blood_ , he reminded himself. Those were the words of the queen he served and this is what became of those that stood their ground before a dragon.

“You – stand here.” A _dothraki_ guard nudged Daario roughly to one side with the other slaves. They were being lined up for inspection along the street. They weren't far from the water. He could see it to his right, packed with ships. _The promise of freedom._

Three female pirates, at least two foot taller than him, were the first to come by. Any notion Daario had of escape was silenced by the presence of these creatures. Their naked breasts were adorned with metal and bone piercings while jewels threaded through golden chains hung down their backs like scales on their dark skin. Warriors from Bayasabhad. He'd fought them once  _and run._

Daario was insulted that they paid only five coins for him. Grizzly fetched three.

*~*~*

The Bayasabhad ships were held together by fear alone, of that Daario was certain. As he was loaded onto one he felt the plank sway with his weight then groan as he stepped off of it and onto the ship. It smelled wretched. Rancid blood stained every piece of it, darkening the wood while fresh sword marks littered the railing from a recent tussle.

“Common tongue?” One of the warrior pirates hissed at him. The words were clear but accented as she spoke. Like all that lived on trade, she had many languages, none of them particularly fluent.

“Yes, my lady-” Daario started to reply. He was halted by a slap across his face that sent him to his knees.

“There are no ladies here, _Second Son_ filth. Can you man sails?”

“Yes.”

“You will join the others. That man with one eye,” she pointed to a burly creature smoking to the side, “will show you where sleep. Now go.”

“ _Aye cap...”_ Daario whispered very carefully. He liked his teeth where they were.

###  **ESSOS - VALYRIA**

###  **102 BC**

 

Valyria's red sky bled in equal measure for the sun and stars. A travesty of volcanic mountains forged a path through the innards of the peninsula or as some called it, _the black backbone of Valyria_. Their violent depths rumbled, shaking the foundations of Valyria, Tyria and Alyrias in the north. Dark rock clawed out of the forest, twisting in hideous, fire-born structures at odds with the beauty surrounding them. Many had trails of acrid smoke wafting casually from their peaks, some even flickered with the occasional surge of molten rock. Legend had it that dragons bred with the fire, laying stone eggs on these impassable cliffs.

The city of Valyria nestled at the heart of the burning mountains, deep in the heat and fire. Palaces, sculpted into the likeness of dragons, rose above permanent streams of lava which flowed in place of rivers. Magic held the inferno down, preventing it from tearing the city apart. Priests chanted their prayers continuously to keep the dream of Valyria above the molten waves. Their voices poisoned the air, mingling with the smoke and salt where these fire-rivers met the sea.

Daenerys emerged on an impossible shelf of rock, barefoot on the warm stone. Her silver hair was whipped up by a restless wind that rushed from the mines dotted along the flanks of every mountain. She felt the ground quiver underfoot and hushed voices from below. The cliff shed stone as though it were ice, tumbling around her. _A dream_ , she realised, but not her own.

_Dragons_ .

She held her hand to her chest at the sight. Dozens of them circled the city, casually rising with the warm air currents. Silver, green, red, black... Their beauty was tempered only by their fearsome silhouettes. Some were immense, turning gently toward the light. Now they were gold.

The mountain beneath creaked like a boat, swaying awkwardly. Rocks fell. Dust tore at her eyes. Then the ground  _snapped._

Daenerys stumbled, falling to her knees.

A roar, so unholy and consuming that no god or devil could birth it, erupted. It overwhelmed the land, shaking the air with such force that several buildings in Valyria tumbled casually into the fire. The sound alone stole the very life from Daenerys, pushing her down against the ground. Her heart vibrated in sync until she screamed.

Before her eyes, the largest volcano in the known world did the unthinkable.

Two thirds of its peak vaporised. A rage of smoke seethed uncontrollably, rushing up into the freezing sky. The friction immediately splintered in spectacular fingers of lightning, striking out at the surrounding land. The sound reached the city first. She _saw_ it level buildings. Like a stone thrown into a pond, it subdued the world in concentric circles, sheering off the taller castle turrets, fragile bridges and the ancient forests that surrounded the mountains. Daenerys couldn't tear her eyes from the eruption.

A rush of wind.

A gasp of silence.

Darkness fell.

The ash cloud was lit from beneath by the glow of lava rushing unchecked through the city. Magic wavered. Hundreds of priests abandoned their posts, fleeing into the open where they were caught in the collapsing city. Even the dragons fled – or died. Daenerys woke to watch one plucked from the sky by a flaming rock and smashed into the mountains.

Valyria's destruction was absolute.

###  **SLAVER'S BAY**

###  **300 AC  
**

“Daenerys?” Jorah knocked on the cabin door again. The queen had not returned. At first he'd thought she'd been engrossed in the array of raven's notes Varys had left out for her interest but that was many hours ago. He knocked again. “Daenerys?”

The lazy, golden curve of Yunkai peaked over the waves.


	14. Illicit Goods

 

###  **SLAVER'S BAY**

The boat creaked underfoot, rocking lazily with the incoming tide working its way from one side of the world to the next. Jorah's shoulder impacted the cabin door sending a storm of splinters into the air. The lock loosened. He pulled back. Ran at it again. This time the hit collapsed it inward, leaving the door awkwardly hanging from one hinge while its hefty lock hit the floor with a solid _thunk._

Jorah stumbled through the doorway, reaching for the shredded frame as the boat rolled gently. A pile of silver cloth strewn beneath the window drew his eye. As the ship rolled back, the cloth moved. _Daenerys_.

_'Gods of the fucking frozen sea...'_ he hissed under his breath, staggering to the queen. He knelt beside her, lifting a thin veil of silver cloth from over her face. The queen was whispering incoherently, twitching, sweating and shaking. A fever dream. He'd witnessed many. They grew more frequent as they drifted into the southern reaches of the world. Varys suggested that it might be the beginnings of madness – Jorah could only hope that he was wrong.

It was dangerous to wake a dreamer so he did nothing save sit beside her and wait.

The boat rolled again. All the adornments hanging from the ceiling took on a lean. Some of them banged together making soft, mystical sounds. _Was this his world_? How did a knight from the North end up drifting on an ocean at the edge of the realm?

*~*~*

_Ash became ice. She was in a storm, raging over a desert of ice. Ahead, a blustering mess of snow swelled – violent blue at its base and dark grey toward the crest – rising in a seething wall as terrifying as a frozen wave. Daenerys felt the weight of a sword in her hand. When she turned her head to look it fell from her grasp, piercing the ice with an angry, metallic ring._

_A bear strode out of the storm. Its black fur bristled, laced with snow. It looked right at her – then to the sword, curling its lip to reveal a pair of curved fangs. When Daenerys cast her gaze down, the sword was aflame._

_'Daenerys...'_

_The snow advanced on her, blurring the world to white._

“Daenerys?”

A bear growled.

Daenerys startled, opening her eyes. She jolted upright, gasping for air, clutching at her arms.

“Easy...” her bear insisted.

Ser Jorah was beside her on the floor, drinking in the afternoon sun that streamed through the boat's window. It must have been the warmth that woke her.

“I was – somewhere else,” she whispered, reaching for the cup of water that he offered. She sipped it slowly. “I know they're not real,” she added, after a long silence. “And yet I cannot tell their detail from reality when I am in them. They are – I can't explain what they are.”

“They are a gift,” Jorah took the glass from her and helped her to her feet. She leaned heavily on him. He could feel her skin cold to the touch even though she'd been laying in the sun. “There are very few people that have or will ever live with whispers of the future.”

“That is all well and good for the priests in their temples, muttering away the hours,” she replied, letting him lower her to the bed, “but I am a queen. A Targaryen. I will not be _mad_. I cannot. They will kill me.”

*~*~*

Varys found that he didn't mind the salt lashing at his face. It reminded him of  _Lys._ Yunkai was close. He could smell its foul breath on the air ruining the otherwise pleasant vista. It was one corner of the world he'd not been. Of course he'd heard about its golden walls and vast wealth, read the ravens whenever the old masters cared to send word to the capital. He'd been rather surprised to learn that the young dragon queen had conquered the city so quickly. As suspected, her reign was temporary and quickly drawing to its end. They would be sailing into a city precariously balanced over two abysses.

“Safety is relative,” Varys eventually replied to Tyrion's question.

The dwarf, who'd consumed half a bottle of wine awaiting the answer, was groggy. “What?” he replied, unable to remember what they were speaking of.

“You asked if making port in Yunkai was a good idea.”

“Oh.” He lurched oddly, holding his chest. Sea did not agree with him. All the hours he'd spent on it were either at war, hiding or as a prisoner. “They have plenty of ships. We need ships.”

“That they do and yes we do.” Varys thought he could even see a few dotted amongst the waves. “I've sent the masters a proposition of sorts...”

“I thought the queen held this city?”

“In appearances. If we try to sail away with the whole fleet we'll quickly discover who really owns the people of Yunkai. No one likes a foreign conqueror, not even the enslaved.”

“The queen is not going to be happy when she finds out what you have planned in the feathers of your ravens.”

“The queen doesn't need to know the particulars.” Varys leaned carefully against the rail. Yes, those were ships, lording over _Slaver's Bay_ with their golden sails rippling. They were each like lost hunks of rock, gravitating around their star, ready to be cut free at any moment. “The important thing is that we secure enough ships and supplies to sail onto Astapor.”

*~*~*

At Yunkai, they found the famous golden sea gates open with enormous dragon banners draped over the cliffs. Their black edges clipped the waves. Yunkai was the only harbour in the world built entirely behind impenetrable gates. No one, in the history of the known world, had conquered Yunkai by the sea. Now Daenerys' fleet slowed to a crawl, carefully navigating the cliff-bound approach. The wind died. Their sails deflated, slacking against the ropes. Jorah came out onto the deck to eye the suspicious harbour. The last time they'd been in this city they had the freedom of the land gates.

“What troubles you, Mormont?” Tyrion wandered over, slightly drunk. He tripped but caught the rail, hauling himself up.

“Those gates,” he replied simply. The waves crashed against their base, wearing off the gold facades. Beneath they were stone. Cold and hard.

“It is lucky that the _Second Sons_ man them. Shame we lost their commander...” Jorah looked sharply at the imp. Tyrion raised his hands innocently. “I am not insinuating anything – just stating how it might look to those with a more suspicious mind than myself.”

“That's _insinuating_.”

“Pleasant day,” Varys appeared. He was draped in his inappropriately long silk attire better suited to palaces than boats.

Jorah hadn't worked out exactly how Varys wormed his way onto the queen's small council. He assumed it had something to do with Tyrion, nevertheless he wasn't entirely sure he trusted the spider's motives. A man that worked for his own interests could never be entirely relied upon. “A little more wind would be better,” he replied. “There's nothing to run on in this harbour.”

Their ships passed the gates. Up close the gold was revealed as paint. The huge hinges and counterweights defied gravity. Whichever empire built these, it was not the Yunkai... Something caught Jorah's eye – a flare of red nestled in the cliffs, barely inside the gates. A tree – struggling with its awkward home on the rock, offered a flare foliage to the harsh sun. A weirwood. It was alive. Jorah wondered if anyone watched from its leaves.

“You know,” began Varys, tilting his head thoughtfully at the city as it came into focus, “legend says that Yunkai was once home to a _Shadow_. It bound the walls with spells and curses, layering them in against the mud. The black wave of corpses will wash against its walls and withdraw, as surely as the tide.”

“Magic will save them – is that your theory?” Jorah turned to look at him. “The Valyrian's thought so too. Magic is fickle. Who can tell what side the gods favour?”

“It is all the same to the many faced god,” Varys noticed the weirwood too. He did not let his thoughts linger there in case someone could hear them. “But only a fool would think that magic has no sway on the outcome of war.”

“I said it was unpredictable – not irrelevant.”

*~*~*

Daario wasn't a man for hard labour. Despite being genuinely afraid of his current pirate captors, he was insufficiently motivated to tie the sails in a timely fashion. Instead, he lingered at the top of the rigging, enjoying the fresh breeze and view of the coast which their ship skirted around.

“Oh – you little bugger...” he whispered, leaning into the wind. Their fleet of ships was being tailed by a dragon. No one had noticed but then, to most the creature looked like a large eagle, soaring high. It was still a cub, playing in the wind.

Something struck Daario sharply in the chest. He groaned, momentarily losing his grip on the mast. On the deck, his 'boss' was shouting something in very ill common tongue and brandished catapult. He loaded then shot another small rock at Daario. This time it missed, splintering the mast next to his face.

“Relax!” Daario shouted down at him. He tied up the rigging then headed back to the deck where he was slapped over the back of the head and kicked in the shins for dawdling.

On the third day he seriously considered murdering the entire crew. It was possible but with more than a dozen ships surrounding this one not even he could hope to escape. Perhaps there was another option.

“I'll take that,” Daario stepped in front of one of the slaves carrying a pitcher of wine towards the main quarters of the ship where the warrior queens drank and gambled their way across the seas. The small servant glanced nervously about but it was late at night and everyone was either drunk or asleep. Daario relieved him of the wine and carried it over to the locked door the knocked calmly. When he entered, the towering pirate queens from _Bayasabhad_ with their dark skin and vibrant, green eyes turned on him.

Daario tried to ignore the skeletons hung from the far wall. He wasn't sure if they were trophies or blood magic – either way they were repulsive, knocking together as the boat rocked.

“Did you kill the wine boy?” One of them asked.

Daario looked rather offended. “No.” The pirate shrugged and held up her glass, waiting for him to serve her. He did. “I only want to talk. Murder seemed a bit over the top.” He risked a playful wink – the sort that normally worked on the females of his acquaintance and immediately regretted it when he was slapped across the face.  _Tough crowd._

“Talk. You have until you finish serving the wine.”

“Your fleet is being followed,” he began, moving to the next glass, “by a dragon.”

“The silver bitch is nowhere near these waters. Last we heard she'd scurried off to _Slaver's Bay_.”

“Not the Targaryen Queen,” Daario carefully corrected. “A _dragon_ – one of hers. It was tracking the _Dothraki_ caravan that you bought me from. I've watched it for weeks picking off the occasional horse whenever we made camp. It is certainly real and quite large. Have you ever seen a living dragon?”

That held their attention and even though he'd finished serving him wine, they did not hiss at him to leave.

“Why would it follow our ships?” asked one of the pirates. “We are slim pickings compared to the displaced hoards that roam the land.”

“That – at least – is easy,” he replied, setting down the heavy wine canister. “Me.” Daario was met with incredulous looks. “Perhaps I didn't introduce myself correctly. I am _Daario Naharis_ , Commander of the _Second Sons_ , lover to the Queen and I must say, rather under priced.”

“This – dragon – knows you?”

“We have an understanding.” It was probably after one of his limbs but he didn't share that. The truth was, Daario was rather concerned about the dragon's motivations for pursuing him. He doubted that it was fond of him. “Dragons will change the world,” Daario assured them. “I have an offer to make your wonderful people, displaced at sea by the Seven Kingdoms. Unless you'd rather wait here for it to get bored and roast your fleet?”

One of the pirates pushed a chair toward him with her feet. “Sit then, dragon-lover, pour yourself some wine and we may talk.”

*~*~*

“What's in the chest?” Daenerys asked, watching the hefty thing carried onto the dock. Lines of ex-slaves waited patiently, edging the harbour side of the city. Their chains might be gone but their white togas and black hems remained the same. Daenerys doubted any had managed to cling onto the freedom she'd offered.

“Bribes,” Jorah replied, “for the Harbour Master. He waits beyond the gold door. It is ceremonial for fleets to offer such things. We must buy his good graces.”

“And this is not the time to break with ceremony.”

“No – it is not.”

They stood for nearly an hour in the sun, the ships creaking behind them and the sweat of her  _Unsullied_ guard wetting the dock. Jorah noticed his queen's hand shaking. He wanted to ask if she was all right but even the faintest breath of weakness could endanger them all. Daenerys had to be the Silver Dragon Queen of myth – untouchable in her absolute rule. If the people of Yunkai believed that she was a deity then maybe, just maybe they'd all live long enough to buy a fleet and sail to Westeros. Missandei remained on board, guarding the queen's ship.

Eventually Varys wandered down the length of the docks, arms folded into his sleeves and bald head slick from the heat. He stopped and bowed deep before the queen. “We are granted entry, your grace,” he announced politely. “The city council will receive us and hear your request.”

Jorah had already counted the available ships in the harbour. There were three-hundred odd prepared to sail, most sunken enough to suggest a full hull. Their own forces plus those that they'd left in control of Yunkai could probably re-take the city from a rebellion and allow them to steal the ships but their losses would be heavy and word would spread to Astapor before they could follow. If they walked that path they'd have to make do with this fleet. It wouldn't be enough for Westeros.

“Remember,” Jorah whispered to his queen. “Conflict will do us more harm than good. Let the spider earn his keep. His webs are all through this city's streets. Calm. Patience.”

Daenerys eyed the bald man now leading them toward the palaces. “Trust Varys...”

“Trust Varys to buy us ships,” Jorah corrected her.

“ _Trust_...” she repeated, the word ill in her mouth.

*~*~*

Inside the Harbour Master's palace Daenerys was met by a coalition of slavers masquerading under merchant titles. She tried not to sneer. It was less than a year ago that she could have had them hanging from the sea walls. Their fear had become resentment and it burned in their gaze. Dragons feared no fire so she smiled and nodded politely at them.

“My Queen...” one of them greeted disingenuously. “Welcome back to Yunkai. It has been many moons since your grace has laid her eyes upon our city. Have you come to visit or stay?”

Jorah was paranoid. Daenerys could feel his disquiet against her skin as if it were her own. He was counting the exits, marking every breathing creature as friend of foe. He'd kill them all if she asked – slaughter the entire city on the edge of his sword. If it was her life on the other side, there was no warrior alive more dangerous than him.

“Will they honour the deal?” he asked the queen later. They stood alone on one of the wrap around balconies balanced precariously off the edge of a cliff.

“Varys says yes.”

“You are disappointed...” Jorah turned, leaning against the rail with one arm. They were too high up for the salt spray but the gulls spiralled around them, diving into a thousand holes in the cliff. One of the dragon banners lay against the stone not far from them. Up close it was in real danger of tearing free and being thrashed to nothing by the waves.

“I doubt I'll ever lay eyes on this city again,” she replied softly. “The Masters are strangling it and the people are enslaved. Nothing has changed. It is as if I never was.”

“Your destiny is not Yunkai,” Jorah assured her. He took her gently by the arm and lifted it so that she was pointing down at the water. “Keep your eyes on those ships – they are yours,” he whispered against her ear. “With these ships you'll sail to Westeros. They are your people, my queen. An empire waits for your return. It is not possible to rule the world – you must choose a corner.”

Daenerys' eyes drifted close at his warm breath on her neck. “I choose Westeros,” she murmured. “My father's crown. The throne of his conquered enemies. I have seen myself walk through the great hall...” Daenerys trailed off. In her dream the throne room was ash and snow tumbled in from the ruined ceiling. She feared what she'd find in Westeros – that her destiny was not the throne at all. Perhaps that was the true reason she'd lingered so long in Essos. Her eyes opened to the sea.

Jorah let his hands slide away. He took a step backwards, leaving the queen alone on the balcony with her thoughts.

He walked the cliff balcony, following up ruined steps and dangerous overhangs of steel framework. The view was spectacular but more than that – it was deserted. Solitude was precious and he drank it in, watching the seething waters beyond the gates. As soon as they crossed the ocean it was win or die. They could not come back from this.

A snow of red leaves drifted over him, racing past his shoulder and over the edge toward the waves far below. He turned and realised that he was standing beneath the dreaming tree. It was such a pathetic, gnarled looking creation with swollen roots forced out from the tiny cracks in the rock.

“I see you,” he whispered, to whomever watched from the ghastly face carved into its trunk.

*~*~*

A shadow stirred on Yunkai's wall. Quaithe had been dreaming, watching the waves when a bear approached. His growl broke her from the vision and returned her to the failing desert sun. She whispered another thread of magic to the walls.

*~*~*

“I am _not_ afraid of you,” Daenerys purred at the air. Her silver dress curled around her, licked up the wind as if it were a dragon tail. Another figure had joined her on the balcony, watching her silently. It moved closer. “I know what you intend,” she added, “for this city – for yourself. I will make no plans to stop you.”

The old king's son, now a wealthy merchant, paused. This  _queen_ from across the sea stole that his birth rite was no queen to him. He fantasised about killing her – drawing his knife through her pale flesh and carving it from her bones. They'd won the city back from her once, why not again? “My ships for my city...” His nails were long, lacquered and curved into claws that scraped against the railing. “That is theft not trade.”

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” she replied, slowly turning. The young prince was handsome but fierce. _Vile_ she thought, as his eyes roamed her form.

“A true Targaryen would have. You are an echo, bouncing off the cliffs soon to be lost to the sea. We have a word for what you are -”

“-I'm sure you do,” she cut him off. “The deal has been agreed. If you please, I'd like to be alone.” A slide of metal – a quick step forward and he had pressed a dagger against her ribs. He'd stopped short of breaking the skin. This one enjoyed the power of threat. A _kharl_ would have thrown her from the balcony for honour's sake. “Control yourself,” she growled.

“Why?” He twisted the tip of the blade. “You are not a dragon. I could kill you now and keep your army, ships and the city. Why would I let you leave?”

“Because if you don't, you'll have to do all of that with your head separated from your shoulders,” Daenerys replied coolly.

The prince felt the weight of a broad sword on his shoulder. Ser Jorah Mormont was behind him, levelling the sharp edge a breath from his artery. The prince did not move. “You know what they say about befriending wild animals... You can't.”

“We neither of us are tame,” Daenerys replied.

A moment later, a body tumbled over the rail. The flailing thing dropped quickly, clearing the cliffs before vanishing without a trace into the waves below.


	15. Yunkai

 

###  **YUNKAI, ESSOS**

It was late in the afternoon. The sun had lost its warmth but the bricks of the ancient city along with its stone streets held enough from the day to keep the temperature uncomfortably high. Suffocating. The _Yunkai_ kept to the shade, sleeping or conducting their trade in the coolest corners with the rats. They waited eagerly for the night, eyeing the foreigners with interest.

The enormous fleet of ships clogging the bay did nothing to help. Their sails obstructed the breeze. It was tight – hulls rubbed against each other as deck hands scampered between the vessels. Missandei stood at the front of the queen's ship. She narrowed her eyes at the golden city and then back to the sea gates. They remained open, the body of open water swelling beyond. She was afraid that if her gaze drifted from them for too long they'd shut and leave the entire fleet savaged in the water.

“You are back, Lord Tyrion?” she startled, as Tyrion strolled up onto the deck. He'd sobered up. She could tell by the frown etched between the scars on his forehead. Missandei couldn't decide if the lion drank to forgot all the things he'd seen or the plots that swirled in his head.

“You can drop the 'lord'.” He wasn't sure he was any form of Lord anymore. Were you still a Lord if you murdered members of the royal family? Possibly not. Not here, anyway. Here he was the smallest lion that ever breathed. “Negotiations are concluded. Nearly all the ships you see here belong to the queen. Grey Worm is dividing up our existing crews as we speak so that we may leave at once. The sooner the better. We'll be light until we reach Astapor. See...” he pointed to the edge of the fleet nearest the open water. Several of the boats there were hitching their sails into the wind, turning to the gates and beginning their escape.

“And the _Second Sons_? Do they still police the city?” And the gates...

“For now. The changeover will happen as the last of our boats leave. I'd advise the queen's boat _not_ be one of those. The Yunkai are yearning for a fight. Peace doesn't suit their constitution. I wouldn't put it past them to pick off the weak ones as a bit of friendly sport.”

That unsettled Missandei. She rubbed her arms and thought of her queen – wondering where she was now. Her and the knight had been gone too long. She wasn't entirely sure that she trusted Ser Jorah after all that had happened.

“Have I offended you?” Tyrion asked, more quietly.

“No. It's this place – I'd rather we leave as soon as we can. It feels...”

Tyrion knew exactly how it felt. “I know.”

He lingered next to her, watching the bay. “It's more than the looming gates that disturb you,” he added quietly. “You've been rather cool toward the knight.”

“The queen has forgiven him.”

That wasn't an answer to his question. “You are not the queen.” Missandei scorned him. He raised his hands in submission. “Ser Jorah serves his heart – always has – and right now that heart belongs to your queen. He is neither fickle nor insincere.”

“You trust him,” she turned back towards the water and the open gates.

“I trust his heart. That is all.”

“I trust only the swords of men. They're always craving blood.”

*~*~*

“What are we doing?” Daenerys whispered, her naked back pressed to the sharp cliff wall. The knight had her pinned there, holding tightly onto her wrist after pulling her from the railing's edge and out of sight. She could feel his panicked breath on her neck.

“Leaving...”

He took a moment to collect himself before stepping back onto the walkway, dragging her with him. There was nowhere to hide. The beautiful, silver gown wrapped around Daenerys's body was soaked in blood. It was in her hair, down her arms – across her face. None of it hers. It turned black as it dried, leaving her as though she'd stepped straight out of the flames.

It was on his neck too – one great hand print where the prince had grasped roughly at him before -

-before going over.

“We can't be seen like this,” he added, racing wildly over the rickety walkways. They creaked ominously and dislodged small clouds of dust underfoot as though the whole sad thing wished to collapse into the water. “He was the Crown Prince.” Jorah wasn't intimately versed on the intricacies of Varys's treaty but he was pretty certain that this would break it. He wasn't sure whose wrath he was more afraid of – Yunkai or Varys.

“He will wash up against the city docks...”

“Soon,” Jorah agreed. “The tide is coming in. Our ships must run against it.”

They both stopped. The walkway ended in a gate house connected to the old palace. It too was a building hitched onto the face of the cliffs. Its tiny windows faced the water, black and sullen to the world. Jorah wondered if anyone was already watching...

“Stay here...” he said, leaving her on the walkway. He laid against the door, listening. There was a shift of metal behind them. A guard – maybe two. _Four_. He pushed through, hitting one of them in the process. He swung his sword wildly, catching an arm. Blood sprayed over his armour and continued in a sickening line across the wall.

The smallest of the four rushed in and Jorah had to throw himself to one side. The guard ended up on the walkway. Stunned by the sudden brightness, he whirled around just in time to watch a disgraced knight's sword slip in under his rib and exit through his back. He coughed, dropping his weapon which tumbled into the ocean below. A gull cried out. The dying guard saw a silver dragon against the cliff face, wings unfurling into great, blinding sails.

Jorah had barely raised a sweat as he turned back to the room to find the last guard. He was smart. Jorah could see the calculating look in the other man's eye. He'd taken the time to arm himself with an axe as well as a sword and now owned the centre of the room, waiting for Jorah to make the first move. So he did.

The guard died, hanging from a rusted spike in the wall. Two foot of iron protruded from his chest, stained with blood which dripped onto the floor in an expanding puddle beneath him.

“Don't look at them,” Jorah whispered to his queen, as he led her through the room.

She ignored him, staring directly at the twitching corpse hung up on the wall like an animal after the hunt. Violence and death did not scare her. She was a child of blood – a dragon. Daenerys didn't want to admit it but she felt most at home with the _Dothraki_ and their bloody rituals. There was truth in violence. This world of politics she'd been thrust into made her uneasy.

“My father would have burned this city to the ground,” she replied, as they started down a narrow, spiral staircase. “Let the fire cleanse their defiance. Sometimes I wonder if the _Lord of Light_ is a dragon. A great beast living above the clouds.”

“You are not your father,” Jorah reminded his queen. “The great conquerors of your line _built_ cities. If you burn the world there will be nothing left to rule.”

“My bear,” she whispered, drawing closer to him as they descended, “your are from the _North_. Your gods come from the depths of time. They've been sleeping too long to save us now. It's the new gods that stir and hiss at the whims of men.”

Right now, she was being saved by a bear, not the gods and he had a tight grasp. They reached the sea. Daenerys could hear it lapping against the stone and feel it in the damp stones.

“Over here,” Jorah said, pushing open a rotted door.

They emerged in the fish markets. Scales littered the wharves while dozens of stray cats howled. One ship. That's all they needed. A potential candidate brushed up against some of the merchant vessels and the end of the dock. He could see a small guard of unsullied patrolling its deck. He pointed to it and Daenerys nodded.

“We'll never make it without being seen,” she said. Her silver gown and dark red stains were unmissable among the olive-skinned _Yunkai_. If the alarm was raised, they'd be dragged back into the palace and she seriously doubted they'd find any mercy from the Old Masters.

*~*~*

The war bells of _Yunkai_ rang. Their shrill call dislodged a thousand gulls from the cliffs, turning the sky a frantic white. A scuffle broke out at the docks where the bloodied body of the prince bobbed in the water leaving a stain in the water. One of the gulls stood on the dead prince's chest, picking at a shiny button on his tunic. Hands reached down, groping for an inch of fabric. The body was dragged out of the waves and laid over the stone. One of the guards knelt down, whispered something to the _Yunkai_ gods, then rolled the corpse over.

A gasp rolled through the crowd. The guard looked over to the dragon queen's ships, running toward the ocean gates. “Close the gates,” he hissed. “Take the ships.”

*~*~*

“Stop! These are the queen's ships.” The Unsullied guard levelled a spear at the rotten fabric. Two stowaways had climbed out of the water, scaling the side of the ship and thrown themselves on the deck.

“Relax, Rat Tail,” Jorah replied, sliding back the hood on his stolen robes. The Unsullied knelt at once, bowing his head before the queen. “Why are the bells ringing?”

“The city, they have found a dead prince. They tried to attack our ships but we have all sailed from the docks. We are nearly at the gates.”

The queen stood and moved to the edge of the ship, eyeing the enormous sea gates as the ship approached. “They sailed without their queen?”

“No... your grace. That is – we believed you to be on the queen's ship. Your flag was raised and we sailed.”

Daenerys glanced at Jorah. She couldn't read his face. Couldn't decide if the ships leaving her on were for her protection or lack of hope. “Tell the captain to widen the sails. We must clear the gates.”

“The gates are closing,” Jorah whispered. They were. The monstrous structures shed salt and gullshit, cutting through the waves.

“The _Second Sons_?”

“Are dead.” He finished for her. Above, he could see their bodies hanging from the walkways on the cliff. “ _Yunkai_ is done with us. Now all we can do is _run.”_

*~*~*

_Run_ they did. Every ship in the bay let its sails out. Hundreds of white sheets engorged, dragging the ships through the choppy ocean against the tide. As the gates of the harbour started to close, the wind softened. Anything left on the wrong side would be in  _Yunkai's_ grasp. Jorah tugged his queen away from the side as the hull scraped against one of the gates. She pulled free of him, reaching out to touch the stone. There was magic in the gates – old magic but not enough to keep her. The magic of a dragon was stronger than stone or whispering gods.

Not all their boats made it. Five were trapped. One was crushed in half between the stone, sinking in a salty foam. The others were boarded – their crew slaughtered immediately and thrown into the sea. Dany didn't see it but she felt their screams.

“Catch the lead ship,” she ordered. “I'll have my word with Varys now.”

*~*~*

The Dragon Queen shed the rags she'd used to hide in the markets of  _Yunkai_ and boarded her ship with her bloodied robes in full view.  _Fire and Blood_ . She'd not let them forget it. There was nothing more powerful than a leader that got their hands dirty. Power was only power if people truly believed that you'd earned it.

“My queen.”

“Your grace.”

Varys and Tyrion bowed in succession. Missandei smiled.

“And thus the answer to the prince's demise,” Varys added. He was rather impressed to see that it was the queen, not her bear, that had performed the deed. He'd admit to being curious to the circumstances.

“These things happen,” Daenerys replied. “Shall we continue this below deck?”

“My lady, won't you change first?”

Daenerys waved Missandei off. She was quite happy as she was.

*~*~*

“Will the _Yunkai_ follow us?”

Varys averted his gaze from the window. He was watching for smoke on the air, listening for screams. “Follow? No... They are a city at war with themselves. With the prince dead there will be a squabble to establish succession and then, perhaps, they will branch out – test their power on the neighbouring cities. Chasing you across the world will not be part of their agenda. They have no designs on _Westeros_.”

Tyrion frowned. “We risk Astapor then?”

“We need Astapor,” Varys admitted. “We cannot sail these ships into war – there are not enough men or provisions to make the trip.”

Daenerys had been watching Jorah for quite some time. He'd been uncommonly stoic through this meeting. It was starting to unsettle her. “Ser Jorah?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “It's only, your Grace...”

“Speak.”

“Astapor is not enough. We will need to make landfall before Westeros – there is more to this plan than a slaver city.”

Daenerys was not surprised. She didn't need to ask Varys outright – all she did was level her fierce eyes at him.

“True... It is not agreed yet but you have friends – friends who will shelter your fleet for a price – conceal your crossing into the new world. Old friends.”

The queen closed her eyes for a moment. Her mind was always filled with half-thoughts, ill-formed memories of a place she barely remembered. There was a scent of lemon in the air, towering stone walls and a bright red door with a golden sun set into the wood. Inside it smelled of pine and smoke as though concealing a northern wood. Occasionally she found herself there in dreams, playing in the courtyard. “Braavos...” she whispered.

“Braavos, my queen.”

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably. “Braavos is full of the king's spies,” he cautioned.

“I assure you,” Varys replied, “it is full of the queen's loyal court. They lay in wait for her return.”

  
  



	16. White Shadows

A Targaryen banner, torn free of Yunkai's failing ocean gates, floated in the choppy waters of Slaver's Bay. The salt leached its cheap dye while the depths beckoned, wave upon wave. On the third day it slipped below the surface, lost forever with the souls of pirates, slaves and masters of old. It draped over their bones – barely a song. A few bars... A whisper. Perhaps all dragons would meet their end beneath the waves, swallowed as the oceans took Valyria. The water yearned for the flames. The fires taunted the swelling tides. Smoke and salt mingled, destroyed and destroying the burnt edges of the world.

Daenerys dreamed of boiling oceans and snow set alight.

*~*~*

“What do you see?”

Jorah felt the soft rumble of his father's voice beside him.

Jeor Mormont was an uncommonly large man, draped in furs and steel with bear signets sewn into the weathered leather. The elder Mormont liked to hunt. He found peace in the silence _._ His son found something else – a half thought left imprinted on the snow. Old magic. It was entangled in every crevice of  _Bear Island_ . Jorah had always been able to sense it, like a stain on the world. It may as well have been his mother's blood lost to the tides.

“Snow,” Jorah replied. “Forests of pine. Cliffs that refuse the encroaching ice.” He shifted his gaze to the gap between the forest. The sea hung there and beyond that... “The Far North.”

“You remember it?”

Jorah nodded. He was barely a young man. “As long as I live, I'll remember those shores.”

“The rest of the world has forgotten what lies beyond The Wall. I dare say those frozen things have not forgotten us. They're waiting for the snow to blow south and cover the Summer Isles. When it does, they'll come out and find us. They'll bring the dead. We'll look those we loved in the eye and see The North and all that lay forgot. The true North. The old magic. Fire and ice. They meet in the realms of man. It is the cataclysm of birth and destruction. One era cannot begin without the obliteration of the last. _The North remembers._ ” Jeor set his pale eyes on the view. “The North remembers when there were forests in the snow.”

Jorah let his fingers run over the sharp edge of his father's sword. Valyrian steel. It would be his one day. “I can feel the cold coming,” he admitted. “It's building, like the first of the winter storms, only worse.”

“I know. Not long now.” His father agreed. Jeor's filthy rave dipped his wings into the snow, tossing it over his feathers.

The two men looked to each other. Normal men should not be able to feel magic shifting but there was something in the blood of the old Northern houses and the Mormonts were one of the _oldest._

“Who are you talking to?”

Jorah startled at Tyrion's voice. He gripped the railing beneath his hand and realised that he was standing on the deck of a ship, rocking with the turbulent waters of Slaver's Bay while a summer storm grazed the edge of the horizon, threatening them with another rough night. A fork of lightening hit the sea. “No one.”

“Someone, I think,” Tyrion approached, although he was given no indication that his company was welcome. “I've been watching you for a while. You and the dragon queen are not so different. I suspect you both hear foul voices on the air.”

Silence. Jorah didn't share the lion's need to speak of private matters.

Tyrion shrugged, undeterred. “I knew an oracle once – not a very good one, mind you,” he added quickly with a grin. “If memory serves she was mostly a whore but she had her moments.”

 _Charming._ Jorah continued to watch the storm. The sky was darkening near the waves while the sun crept toward it. A rumble caught up with the boat, making the wood beneath his hand tremble. The world would be dark before it's time tonight. “Is there any way to stop you speaking short of throwing you overboard?”

“One night,” the dwarf continued, entirely unaffected by the knight's lack of interest, “she lit two candles in the middle of the tent. One white, one black. She promised that the sky would catch fire before the year died.”

“You drink too much.” _If only his tent had caught fire and saved the world a lot of trouble._

“Always,” Tyrion assured him. “That was the year your queen's dragons were born.” Jorah turned. When he straightened to his full height, Tyrion remembered how easy it had been for the knight to drag him onto that boat. He could kill him here, on the deck of the ship, if he really wanted to. The only protection Tyrion had in the world was the queen's curiosity, nothing more. “All the whispers in the world are starting to come together,” he added, taking a step toward the Mormont prince. “Are they growing louder? I'd wager they keep you awake at night.”

“None that make sense,” he finally admitted.

“I can think of someone who'd like to hear them. A 'master of whispers'. Perhaps he can make sense of them.”

*~*~*

The world assumed Varys was born for the royal court. They didn't understand that his present position was a convenience. His talents were meant for something more grand than king making.

“Come in.” Varys's cabin was small, tucked away in the centre of the ship where there were no windows or light save the lanterns he kept burning. He sat behind a desk scarred from battle. One corner had been roughly sliced off by a broadsword and the edge nearest his writing elbow had a steel arrow head stuck deep in the grain. It caught on his sleeve, tearing loose threads from the silk always accompanied by an scowl. “Ah yes,” he continued, when he saw the knight bow his head to fit through the small doorway, “Tyrion mentioned that you'd be dropping by. Close the door.”

_That was presumptuous of him_ , thought the knight. He closed the door and waved away the ill-smelling air, thick with lantern smoke. At least there were no birds down here. He'd never trusted them. His father had a raven once. The filthy thing always had its eye on the world.

“Well, this is very odd,” Varys set his quill down. He'd been writing in a thin journal. It was a ratty thing despite its obvious value – as though it had been carried over many years. “We've spoken often, these last ten years.”

Even the memory of those letters made Jorah flinch with disgust.

“I have made you uncomfortable,” Varys offered the knight a seat, which he took warily. “For what it's worth, I never acted against your queen. Indeed, your letters proved quite useful in keeping her alive.”

“That's hardly the point.”

“I suppose not,” he accepted. “She does have a touch of destiny about her. I remember when I first laid eyes on her.”

“You are from _Lys_ ,” interrupted Jorah. “I assume by the care you take to shave your head that you have the trademark blonde locks. It's rather a give away. Part-dragon... The world thinks the Targaryens are gone but in some corners their bastards thrive.”

It was Varys's turn to look unsettled. “Those are only stories.”

Jorah leaned across the table, his leather armour creaking.  _“True ones...”_ he whispered. “There is talk of these dragons,” Jorah's eyes were suddenly dangerous. “The fire in their blood runs hot. Daenerys is not the only wandering reptile in search of a throne.”

There was a long silence between the two men in which Jorah's fingers brushed the hilt of his sword and a bead of sweat rolled down the back of Varys's bald head, vanishing into the silk layers of his robe.

“You have me wrong, Mormont,” Varys lowered his voice, leaning forward. “If I'd wanted the throne I could have had it long ago and left your child-queen in the sand to rot. She is no half-breed. Daenerys Stormborn is the _only_ dragon left alive with a claim the noble houses will support. I've spent half my life bringing her here. I assure you, it wasn't to stumble on the shore.”

_Something_ , Jorah couldn't quite place it but there was more to Varys than a grand plot of succession. “When you say that you have no interest in the throne  _I believe you_ ,” Jorah admitted. “Now, why did you  _really_ want to see me?”

“It's not for the pleasure of your company, I assure you.”

Jorah leaned back in the chair, all of his leather and steel creaking threateningly.

“You are a Mormont prince,” Varys continued. “Tradition dictates that you've been to the frozen lands in the Far North, beyond the stretch of the Great Wall. You have the same look as your father.”

“You've met my father?”

“Bears have a weakness for dragons,” he replied. “I suspect it's because they _know_ what's coming. Tell me, what are these whispers you hear?”

“I only hear them when the world is quiet,” he admitted. “In the snow. When the wind gets in the pines and the salt carries up from the water. They're – not words. It's the cracking of glass. A hideous sound.”

Varys was afraid. He froze.

“What?” Jorah prompted.

“Don't you know?” Varys turned the wick up on his lantern as if the extra light might protect them.

“...know what?”

“The breath of a Whitewalker.”

*~*~*

Daenerys lifted her arm. Her hand maidens sponged the dead prince's blood from her skin. It had been a few months since she'd killed directly. She preferred it to killing with words. There had been so much death in her reign – the execution of the masters, victims of the plague and the poor souls her dragons saw fit to tear apart.

She flinched suddenly when one of them touched her wrist. There were bruised fingermarks on her pale skin where Jorah had pulled her back from the edge. She hadn't realised how close she'd come to being dragged over the rail and into the ocean. The queen picked up her glass and drank more wine. Missandei disapproved.

“You drink like the dwarf,” she said, taking over from the ladies.

Daenerys dismissed them before replying to her adviser. “I have more cause than most.”

“Wine won't bring him back, my queen.”

Daenerys set the goblet down. “He's not dead.”

“Even if he is alive, you'll never see Daario again.”

If Missandei had been a  _Dothraki_ she would have finished with,  _it is known_ . “I could take this fleet and sail east... They're my ships.”

Missandei sighed, sitting back, bloodied rag in her hand. “Even if you did – which you can't –  _Essos_ is vast. He must find  _you_ , my queen. It is the only way. If he is alive, he will.”

Until then, she was supposed to what – to wait? To move on? She didn't know.

“It's no good,” Missandei added later, trying to brush the blood out of the dragon's silver hair. “We'll have to wash it. You look as though you've wandered straight out off the Great Grass Sea.”

“Perhaps I should keep it like that when I walk into Westeros.”

The woman gave her queen a worried look. It was crucial she didn't come off as mad, violent or marauding.

*~*~*

“Still only two?” Tryion asked.

He and Varys were watching the pair of dragons play above the ship in the warm winds. They wove about, stretching their wings. Whenever they drew close enough the wind filled with sharp clicking sounds as they snapped at passing gulls. They'd never moved to touch any of the ships. Instead they fished and vanished back to the land to hunt when it suited them.

“Don't worry. If a dragon was dead in this world, I'd have heard.”

“I'm not sure if I should be pleased or not,” Tryion admitted. “Dragons are – well – they were hell... If the stories are true, I'm not sure _anyone_ should have dragons.”

“We're going to need them, you in particular if you wish to remain alive. All of Westeros wants your head.”

“That is ungenerous... Some people are quite pleased with one less Lannister in the world.”

“Indeed. They'll be more pleased to lose another.”

Tyrion drank again. These little chats that he had with Varys never made him feel much better. He should have stayed in that wonderful bar, drinking himself into a puddle of oblivion.

Varys snatched the cup out of his hand. “No. You and I have work before we cross the sea.”

*~*~*

When the storm finally hit, it tossed the fleet over the peaks and troughs of monstrous surges. The dragons, afraid of the cracks of lightning, landed on the deck of the queen's ship. They scared the living hell out of Jorah, who'd been helping the crew fasten rigging.

“Easy – _easy!_ ” he lifted his hand to Drogon's snout. Jorah locked eyes with the creature. It stared back with fire from the torches catching the depths of its pupils. Eventually it made a pained sound and backed toward an overhang to find shelter. Its sibling did the same until they were an indeterminate tangle of scales.

“We can't hold this course!” The captain leaned over the railed, calling to the queen's guard below.

Jorah spun, rigging wrapped around his arm. Rain beat against his face. “What?”

“Can't hold her!” Sails were tearing. The rain was almost an ocean in and of itself. “We must head South or it'll shred the ship around us!”

The rest of the fleet had to maintain course with the lead ship. Jorah looked around at the ocean of bobbing lights. The nearest ship to him was listing with every gust of wind, its decks almost touching the water's edge when the waves picked it up. If they looked anything like that, it wouldn't be long until the storm drowned them all.

“Turn her, then!” Jorah agreed. He left the deck, sinking below into the belly of the ship. He was soaked through, bringing some of the storm with him as he approached the queen's quarters. Many below deck were ill from the rough seas, sitting against walls or collapsed over buckets. The air was putrid and the danger very real. Sinking in these waters was almost certain death.

Missandei opened the door – though Jorah barely recognised her. The sea did her no graces. He took her by the shoulders and set her down in a chair without a word. Missandei gave no protest. Jorah found the queen on her bed. It was the safest place while the rest of the room moved around them. Objects tumbled over the floor, furniture rolled like leaves. She had the only lantern in her hands, the burning glass against her palms.

“My queen, we are heading South to save the ships until the storm passes.” He had to reach up, taking hold of the top of the bed as another wave hit and set the ship on a sharp tilt. Water poured off him, hissing against the lantern's glass. “Two of your dragons are on the deck, taking shelter.”

She looked – lost. “I can't see through this storm,” she whispered. “Does it end here – in the middle of the waves? In silence, slipping away. Is this how the story finishes?”

Jorah's gaze was stern. “No, my queen. Your story ends in Westeros. You have seen it in the House of the Undying. The water gods have no stomach for the fire.”

The only fate Daenerys saw in the House of the Undying was _snow_. “Stay...” she reached up to him. Her pale hand was steady but her eyes trembled.

He took her hand and nodded. “As you wish.”

The Drowned God and the Storm God warred outside, scratching at the thin veneer separating them.

###  **CINNAMON STRAITS**

  
  


Daario was focused on the black claw churning in the Western sky. A storm that had been raging all night was starting to fade. He'd heard stories about the Summer Seas but never had he dreamed the ruthless violence whipped up in a moment and thrown at the world. It was no wonder that the ancient gods took root in these lands. The people were afraid. Of the skies. Of the seas. Of what lurked in the corner of their eye.

“By the end of today, it will be as lovely as a song,” one of the pirates said, leaning against the rail with Daario. She was at least a head taller than him, all arms, legs and muscle.

Living among these giants, Daario was beginning to understand how Tyrion felt. Having no physical power left only his mind to survive on and he lacked the skills of the dwarf. “What happens if one of those hits us?”

The pirate winked. “We run,” she replied. “The ancient rulers have lost entire armies to the waves. Some say it is how the gods give their blessing. Do not worry, there are fewer storms in these waters. They are shallow and warm. Our death will come from banks of coral or monsters of the deep, curious enough to nudge our hulls.”

Daario would rather a storm.

The waters of the Cinnamon Strait smelled faintly of spice. It lapped against the hull with thin lines of foam. In the sun it was more green than blue. He was told by the pirates that by the time they passed Great Moraq the waters would be like that of a forest. Then he'd know they were in the Jade Sea. There were other ships here too but they kept their distance from the pirate envoy. The peace was shaky at best. So long as the pirates did not destroy the trade route, they were allowed safe passage.

“Where are we going? You haven't said...”

“Your queen wants to take Westeros – to reclaim her throne and rule over the seven kingdoms. We support this on the understanding of significant spoils in the future war however...”

“There's always an, 'however'.”

“Your queen will _not_ be successful without a relic left in Essos. It is not well known, even among my company. I had to be sure that you were telling the truth. The constant escort of your dragon leads me to believe that you are.”

“I don't understand – what relic?”

“Prophecies may be lost to the West but here, in the East they are whispered to every child. There's another war coming that will make our leadership scrambles tussles in the dark. A great ruler from the East travelled West once before to fight. It is happening again. You've heard of the sword that brings the dawn?”

Bits and pieces. Never as much as he should. “The mythical sword that destroys Whitewalkers. Sure.”

“A stone from its hilt rests in Yin.”

Daario laughed heartily. “There are supposed relics scattered all over the world. I hear that they are immensely useful in raising a bit of revenue from poor, deluded pilgrims. Desert cities have little else to survive on.”

“I assure you, this is real.”

“Even if it was, we're one mythical sword short of actually having one.”

“There is no secret to that. It is safe – in good hands but it is powerless without the stone.”

“So, wait – let me get this straight,” Daario turned to face the pirate, resting against the rail. “You're sailing all the way to Yin to pick up a stone and then you're going to take me back to the queen?”

“If we survive...”

“And you're doing it for – _money_.”

The woman smiled, her teeth shockingly white against her dark lips. “Pirate.”

Well Daario couldn't fault her logic there. “This – stone,” Daario continued. “I presume we can't simply stroll up and ask to borrow it?”

“The stone is the most beloved possession of the Emperor. He believes it to be the heart of his power – and uncommonly long years.”

Daario flinched. That'd be a _no_ then.


	17. The Black Waters of Sothoryos

 

It was a twisted creation, tortured by the poisoned ground where its roots sank ever-deeper into the earth. Beneath black stone, they festered into a tangle of ash. Around its trunk rippled a silver sea. Ghost grass – stretching under the moonlight until its white shadows crashed against the mountains.

 _Asshai_ – where the edges of the world crumbled and folded, melted and surged into a nightmare. The mountains breathed smoke. At night, their innards glowed with flameless fire. The scale was unfathomable. Clinging to the edge of a dead sea was a city to dwarf those of _Essos_ and _Westeros_ combined. It lay in wait – slumbering under a fog of magic. Some whispered that it would be reborn after the snows, spread its wings and lurch into life like a wick catching flame.

Daenerys approached the solitary _Weirwood_ tree. Although walking through a dream she knew that this particular tree was real. How had it come to be? This corner of the world was the spawn of fire. Life had no place here.

When she reached it, Daenerys heard the fog rattle in its dead branches. A ghoulish face peaked from the trunk, howling at the darkness. She reached forward, placing her palm to the wood.

A roar threw her back.

The _Weirwood_ tree burst into flame, raging and burning in place of foliage. The heat burned off the grass and melted the stone, turning it into rivers of fire at her feet.

Something grabbed her hand, dragging her away.

“No!” she shrieked. There was something in those flames – a vision beyond her reach – it was important and terrible. “No – _no!_ ” The heat touched her skin. The fire crept closer. She grasped after it. “No!”

Whatever had her arm refused to let go. She was dragged mercilessly across the silver grass, over the rock and into the black waters of _Asshai._

*~*~*

“Daenerys!” Jorah hauled the Dragon Queen from the burning boat. A mast hit the water beside them, smashing to bits on the rocks. It threw a surge of ocean at them, rousing the queen from her vision, salt and ash mingling on her lips. The thunder of the dying boats, waves and screams of Unsullied swimming to shore was interrupted by the screech of two dragons circling above.

The fleet had been pushed against the shallow rocks surrounding the coast during the storm. Several ships, including the queen's, had caught alight in the mayhem. They filled the early morning sky with flame like a beacon. Jorah prayed to whatever gods were listening that the waters snuffed the wreckage before passing pirates caught sight.

Sharp objects scraped against Daenery's feet under the waterline. Strong arms moved around her waist and lifted her, laying her body over a rock. Instinctively, the queen clung to it, holding steady against the wash. Jorah panted beside her, weighed down in full armour.

Varys was on shore surrounded by chests of his precious paperwork and a huddle of shaken ravens picking salt out of their plumage. The dwarf was laid on the pebbles with a solitary bottle of wine. The Unsullied were rescuing each other and salvaging what they could.

“The water is shallow and warm,” Jorah managed between heavy breaths. “They're saving what they can from our ships. Whatever's not burned.” He looked over at his queen. Jorah was still shaking. He'd pulled her straight from the heart of the flames. His arms were red from where he'd broken down a flaming wall. He'd never forget what he'd seen. The queen – arm outstretched – walking straight toward the flames. It was as though death was pulling her in. She'd survived the fire once but he wasn't convinced that it could be done again.

“Where are we?” she finally asked, her eyes on the water and the ruins of her fleet.

“South,” Jorah replied. “Further than we meant to be. Either we've hit a random island or -”

“Or?” Her blood ran cold. She let go of the rock and stumbled through the water, letting the waves bring her closer to the Mormont prince standing against the tide. “The edge of the world?”

“We need to leave, soon as we can.” Jorah reached for her hand as she approached, steadying her. “Come, out of the water.” He gripped her tiny hands close.

On the shore, Tyrion was laughing. It didn't matter how many times the gods tried to kill him, he always floated to the surface, this time, quite literally. “What do you want with me?” he mumbled drunkly at the dawn. “Hmm? What is it? Just tell me so that I can do it already!”

“Hush!” Varys tossed a small pebble at the imp. “Do not tempt the gods and do not mistake luck with intent. You are alive – do not ask why.”

“You people from the East – with your gods and your superstitions – you worry too much what the gods might think. For all your whispers you've overlooked the obvious. The gods aren't listening. They don't fucking care about the fate of you and me. They're an audience and we're the show. I'm going to fuck and drink my way to the end of this sordid tale. If I am to die, let it be with my cock in something worthwhile – like a bottle of fucking wine.”

Varys was in the middle of sighing when the queen and her knight approached. He had the good grace not to notice that the queen's soaked gown hid nothing of her form and to his credit, the knight kept his eyes on the black shore. “My queen,” Varys started. “Sit – please.”

He pointed to one of the chests which would serve as a chair. She did while Jorah stood beside her, dripping from every piece of armour.

“What happened?”

“The storm, your grace. It was a thing of dead-man's eyes. We had no choice but to sail with it or risk complete destruction. A few hours ago we ran out of open water and hit the shores. Most of the fleet has moved around the edge there, to your left,” he lifted his arm, pointing to the peninsula, “where there is a quiet sort of bay. The others are salvaging the damaged ships and their contents. Twelve are drowned, six missing presumed trapped or dead. We'll be here for a few days at least before we can regroup. We are lucky. Our losses are not as bad as they seem.”

“And where is here?” she asked again, having found no true answer. There was something sinister on the air. The black shores reminded her of _Asshai_ – comprised nearly entirely of melted rock that looked as if it had been spewed from the depths of a dragon's throat and rolled about in the seas. The major difference was the sheer ferocity of life around them. The rocks barely held the dense jungle back. It reared up at the shore, dropping a curtain of leaves and insects. Their shrill calls were alarming, as was the heat already soaking out of the sky. The ocean mist was quickly burning away, mixed with the smoke from her ruined ships.

“My queen, this is the great southern continent. _Sothoryos._ ” Varys added cautiously. “We shouldn't be here. It eats civilisation and strangles any gasp of man.”

Her dragons landed behind them, sinking and stumbling in the pebbled shore, flapping their wings. They were unharmed snapping their teeth at the forest. For the moment, they settled down to dry off.

*~*~*

The irony wasn't lost on the queen. It seemed that she was condemned to spend her reign in a continuous cycle of wealth and abject poverty. How many times has she found herself taking shelter under a bundle of sticks and cloth on the outskirts of the world?

“You're calm, my queen,” Melissandei sat beside her. She had raised, angry spots on her back. The insects were ravenous over the arrival of fresh meat.

“Am I? I suppose I am. You were not with me on the _Red Waste_ – or in the _Great Grass Sea_. If struggle is the road to the throne of _Westeros_ , then I am well travelled.”

The Unsullied were using the corpses of fallen ships to build a raised platform on the shore. They would make camp for no more than a few days. Jorah was helping drag sails out of the water, laying them out on the beach to dry. His armour and shirt were discarded to dry. It was his pale skin that gave him away. _Burned_ , she noticed, down one of his arms. A scout from the bay flashed signals with a mirror from the opposing cliff. The distant roar of a waterfall competed with the surf. Somewhere, not far from here, a river erupted from the dense jungle and drained into the salt.

“Varys says this place is full of ghosts and whispers,” Melissandei added, scratching her arms. “The hunting parties want to head inland for food but he's held them back, insisting they fish.”

“This used to be a habour,” Dany replied. “Ser Jorah showed me though it is only from up here that I can see the collapsed wall. There-” she pointed out the vague arrangement of rocks running into the water. “Whatever killed this city is still here. We must tread softly or risk awaking old gods.”

“Forgive me, that is not something you are known for.”

The queen laughed softly. “You are not wrong. Despite Varys' aversion we must find water and that means -” She cast a meaningful look at the jungle.

*~*~*

“This is _not_ ideal,” Jorah spoke, for the first time since he'd followed his queen into the jungle. There was no need for him to specifically vocalise his opposition to the queen's current course – it was evident in the way he thrashed his sword at the endless web of leaves. _Smash. Whack. Smash._ “There are three other scouting parties out here looking for water. The -” _Whack!_ This time it was his hand against his shoulder, murdering the largest insect he'd ever seen. “-the beach would be safer.”

The queen, now wrapped in a dark brown shawl and changed into her _Dothraki_ clothes, was undeterred. “We're not looking for water, _Ser_ ,” she replied. They were alone, with the noise of the beach behind them. It was midday but the canopy beat the sun into the faintest of light, seeping in between the cracks above.

“Tell me that we're not looking for _Yeen_.” His queen was silent – universal for _trouble_. “Why?”

“Something Varys said.”

“You shouldn't place too much stock in what Varys says. He says what is necessary, not always what is true.”

“I don't doubt it but if it stills your sword, he advised against exploring the forest.”

“Then what did he say to make you come in here, my queen?”

“Nothing. He refused to speak of this place.”

“You have been tempted by silence.”

Jorah overtook her, cutting through a thick tangle of vines before lifting her tiny body onto a boulder. She scrambled over it and held his sword so that he could follow. When they were standing on the other side, the queen looked softly at her knight, handing him the heavy blade. “This place is hiding something,” she replied. “I feel it. My dreams are blurring into visions. I see things – while I'm awake – a shimmer on the waves, a shadow against the jungle.”

“It is known that certain places hold more magic than others,” his voice dropped to a whisper. “I do not believe the magic here is yours. Your dragons – they sleep too much by the water, as though they are tamed. And you – whatever the magic here, I fear it tried to entice you to-”

“To what?” she stopped him, cold _Targaryen_ eyes on him.

Jorah's gaze dropped. “I...”

The dragon queen brushed her fingertips over the seared flesh on his arm. The salt had helped but there was still heat burning under the surface. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth draw out of her his arm and through her body. Jorah groaned. It felt as though she were setting his flesh aflame. He moved to escape her hold but Daenerys laid another hand on him,.

He collapsed to he knees, dragging her with him. His vision was white – snow or fire. They were the same.

“Daenerys – _please_!” he begged. Jorah canted backwards, hitting the ground.

Then it was over.

The pain was gone. The forest returned. He opened his eyes and found his queen kneeling with him amongst the decayed leaves.

“There,” she whispered, touching his face this time. “I told you, I can do things here...”

“Daenerys...” he dared utter her name. The burns were gone from his flesh. “You are not a healer. You are a Dragon. Whatever this is, you are borrowing it.”

“Why is the world fixed on fire and ice?” she replied, caressing his fresh skin. “In my visions, I have seen more than two powers wrestling over the world. The ancient songs are full of gods and magic. Your people know this. The North has its own songs. When one magic awakened, surely the others stirred?”

“My queen...” Jorah reached up, placing his hand gently over the one she had on his face. “If all the gods are stirring, we'd do best to keep quiet.”

“Something connects this place with _Asshai_ ,” she insisted. “The secrets buried here are important. We are wrecked on this shore for a reason. Now, will you help me look or not?”

Jorah exhaled warily. There was no point arguing with a dragon. They had will of their own and means enough to follow them.

*~*~*

Tyrion smeared the innards of a flying insect over his neck. He recoiled at the remains, wiping them off on his tattered clothes. “This is a cursed place!” He complained. The heat was unbearable. The camp had been forced to edge closer to the forest, trading shade for an onslaught of hungry, winged demons. It was the noise more than the bites that was enough to drive a man crazy. It was constant – the filthy hum of life.

Varys was beneath a large sheet of netting. “It reminds me of _Lys_ ,” he replied. “During the summers we had plagues come out of the lemon orchards. There is nothing to be done. The heat though – it cannot get any worse.”

“I am sweating wine.”

“Which explains why you're the favourite meal of our winged friends,” Varys teased him. “We need to move away from this canopy before nightfall and back onto the beach.”

“You really are afraid of this place...”

“There are no whispers from here,” he replied. “No knowledge at all. If there is one thing that I dislike in this world – it is the unknown.”

Without warning, the ground beneath them began to shake. Pebbles rattled together, trees shook, birds fled to the sky in startled wails. Tyrion's wine bottle fell, smashing on the rocks. The imp sat up, startled. As quickly as it began, the shaking stopped. “Earthquake?”

“Must be.”

“I've read of them,” Tyrion added, “but not felt any myself. The grounds at Kings' Landing are stable.”

“Another reason to make our visit brief. I've heard plenty of tales regarding islands and earthquakes.”

“How did those whispers end?” the dwarf asked.

“Silence.”

*~*~*

“Are you all right?” The queen had fallen. Jorah was not far behind, pulling her off the ground. They were covered in leaves and startled bugs dislodged by the sudden quake.

“No – wait,” she stopped him, dropping back to her knees. Her fingers were greasy. She rubbed them together but the film would not come off her skin. She brushed away the leaves and dirt, revealing a black expanse of stone. It was horrible to the touch, leaving another layer of vile residue on her hands. Still, she smiled.

“My queen-” Jorah nodded at the jungle ahead. Scattered through the trees were more blocks of black stone – some clearly covered in strange markings. Each one burrowed out a hole in the foliage. They were at the edge of some lost world.

“ _Yeen_ ,” Daenerys murmured, standing.


	18. Sea Gods

“Come away.” Jorah gripped Dany's shoulders, pulling her from the black stone. She rubbed her palms and fussed against him, freeing herself from hands that too often found themselves on her skin. Before Jorah could protest, the queen was back on her knees, pawing at the outcrop buried in the jungle. He looked around and saw it peeking out of the undergrowth as though it were the froth on an ancient, frozen sea.

The hideous stone was smooth to the touch. Dany placed her palms flat to its rancid surface, closing her eyes – listening to the faint murmurings of lost times that whispered in the rock. A flicker of light crossed her vision. Something stirred. A flap of dragon wings – leather against the wind.

“It's the stones,” she murmured, turning to Jorah. He thought he saw a flame die in her eyes. “The visions are coming from the rock.”

“How can visions come from stone?” he replied. “I allow that some trees hold the secrets of the past and future but they are living things, bound by magic.”

“They say _Asshai_ is built of this black gold, perhaps magic lies in its foundation. I saw the way the buildings lifted out of the land, almost as though they were grown from the black waters.”

“You've not been to _Asshai,_ my queen.” The look she gave him in return dripped scorn. Of course – her visions. He continued, “Even if that is true, your magical rocks did not help _Yeen_. The city fell, long ago. Magic or not.”

“Power is no guarantee of survival.” Daenerys knew that better than most. How many dragon bones lined the narrow sea or turned to dust between kingdoms? Only a fool placed his faith in power. “Still – it's left its mark on this place.” She grew distant. He moved closer, lowered his voice.

“You believe that you can use what you learn here to help you take the throne in _Westeros_?”

“Careful with your tone, _ser_. I think we can agree that the gods toss us about for a purpose. How else does a Bear end up in the company of a Dragon? There's something waiting for me here, I know it. Further in...”

“Please be careful, _khaleesi._ Not all of Fate's whims have been to your advantage.”

Jorah was left following his dragon, trekking in the stifling heat among towering water-trees, the size of which he'd never dreamed. They could swallow whole ships with the girth of their melted trunks. Roots hung off every branch like hair, racing to the ground and strangling whatever they touched including animals that had paused to sleep. Their bones were woven into the mess. These trees were greedy – like the air stealing from their lips. Between the humidity and the claustrophobia, Jorah was starting to long for Winter.

“Here...” she had found another stone. This one was much larger but narrow and deliberately formed. It was dug into the ground, standing fifteen feet with only a slight tilt where an amorous tree leaned against its side. Writing squeezed into every space, etched deep into the stone.

Jorah approached, tilting his head curiously. He reached forward, trailing his fingertips on adorned surface. The grooves were undamaged even though they had to be very old. “Can you read this?” he asked Dany.

“No. Varys?”

“Perhaps. It is a Chart Stone. A living record of the city. They are common in this part of the world. See – down here – the writing stops.” A few feet from the ground. “This must have been erected before _Yeen_ was abandoned.”

“Where is the city?”

“Close. Chart Stones stand by city gates – although the gates themselves are probably lost to the forest. If _Yeen_ truly is made out of the same stone as this marker, it might be intact.” Dany caught his concerned look. It was common between them – something he cast at her when he was unwilling to go along with her plans.

“Whatever happened to this city happened a long time ago.” She assured him. “Do not harbour superstitions like a common pirate. Are you afraid of the ruins at _Valyria_ as well? The dead do not walk there and neither are they hiding here.”

“I've seen dead men walk,” Jorah assured her. “In _Valyria_ as well.” When he looked at her, Jorah _knew_ that she had seen the corpses in the snow. He'd heard her screams. Pulled her from their grip. One day, soon, he'd be pulling her from the snow.

They didn't speak again after that.

*~*~*

The journey wasn't easy on Varys. Mostly round and generally unwell in the heat, his robes caught on plants and he had to be carried over the difficult climbs. By the time he reached the Chart Stone, his forehead was awash with sweat. It tumbled off his nose, eyelashes and lips.

“Ser Jorah is correct,” Varys wiped himself with a filthy sleeve. Oh for the tiled floors of _King's Landing_. The palace might have been overrun by snakes but at least he'd never had to wrangle one out of his robes. “This is a Chart Stone for _Yeen_.” He pointed to a common repetition of characters. “Here – _Yeen_. This is the date and yes, beside is a population count.” Varys frowned. “It falls without explanation – faster as we go down the stone. Either the population are moving on or –”

Ser Jorah ducked under the forest plants and came to tower over Varys. “How does the story end?”

Varys was helped onto a small boulder so that he could reach the base of the stone. He rubbed away the moss, squinting at the black text in the even blacker stone. “What...?” he hissed in surprise, pulling away. His eyes were wide. Despite the heat, his skin went cold. It was as though the ghosts of _Yeen_ breathed against his neck, three-hundred souls screaming out of the stone.

“Speak!” The Queen commanded him.

“The last line,” Varys whispered. “You'll notice that it is in a different style to the rest. A different language, actually. These were written many hundreds of years after by someone else. They are the old Stark words. _Winter is coming._ ” The ground beneath shook again. Varys reached out, leaning against the stone until it passed. “The people of the Summer Isles do not speak those words.”

*~*~*

Tyrion kicked another rock along the shore. He'd been thrown out of the temporary shelter while the _Unsullied_ lifted up the last of the floorboards – making ready for tonight. That left him wandering the beach alone without any wine. He tried to say, 'hello' to the dragons but the pair of reptiles were more interested in sun baking and growled as he grew close. Eventually he found a dwarf-sized boulder and sat with his feet in the cool wash. Tyrion was calmed by the water. It reminded him of home.

He flinched.

Being reminded of home was not necessarily a good thing.

Something caught his eye. There was a piece of driftwood caught between the black stones. At first he thought it might be part of their stricken ships, tugged apart by the sea but no – as he knelt in the water and dragged it free he realised that it was old.

Tyrion held the board up to the light, turning it over. The water made it glisten with the barest hint of polish. He looked back to the waves and soon found another. Then another. Another. Soon he realised that he was standing in the remnants of a structure. He walked up and down the beach, clearing away rubble in what must have been a curious sight to those onshore. The dragons watched him with lazy with half open eyes.

“Yes – exactly here,” Tyrion muttered to himself. “Definitely.”

He'd found Nymeria's fleet – thrashed and ruined on the shore a thousand years ago. Tyrion stopped digging before he found something less appealing – like a Southerner's skull. He turned his back on the sea and eyed the thick jungle. Tyrion had never placed stock in the mutterings of priests but their stories about the history of the world piked his interested. Until recently, he'd thought it mostly a fiction. That was until he'd seen a silver queen ride a dragon. He was starting to listen to that fear growing in his side – the whispers. _How many of the stories were true? Were they all true?_ He certainly hoped that the tales of Brindled men and eyeless cave creatures were nothing but the fears of seamen.

“Why do you look to the forest?” Grey Worm asked, towering over the imp. His skin was darker by the minute, drinking in the sun. “The men have not seen green like this. Our land is sand, water and blood.”

“There's plenty of blood in the forest, of that you can be certain,” Amused, Tyrion handed Grey Worm one of the fragments of wood from the shoreline. Grey Worm inspected it curiously. “Our Dragon is not the first warrior queen to crash against the shore. Nymeria and her ten thousand ships made port – rebuilt the ancient harbour,” he pointed out the break-wall. “ _Yeen_ cannot be far from here.”

“A city?”

“A curse,” Tyrion assured him. “It was already ancient when she tried to re-settle but it brought her nothing but ruin. The fleet left and the city was forgotten again. Best thing for it.”

“Our Queen searches for this city?”

“I hope not. Nymeria – utterly mad, like all good rulers,” Tyrion narrowed his eyes at that seething mass of green. “And do you know what our warrior queen had to say of this ruin at the edge of the world?” Grey Worm shook his head in that stoic fashion of his. If nothing else, he was a man of few and measured words. “ _A city so evil that even the jungle will not enter._ If a crazy, war-monger thought it was the embodiment of evil then we want nothing to do with it.”

Grey Worm was silent, fixed on the jungle and the foreign sounds calling out from its depth. “The only evil I have seen is that of men.”

Tyrion nodded. “You're not wrong.”

*~*~*

Jorah was not sure what he had been expecting – fragments of a ruined city, thrust up through thickets in the jungle? Something similar to the state of _Valyria_ with its crumbling beauty _?_ _Yeen_ floored him. Jorah was certain his lungs fell through his ribs and hit the leaf-litter.

The expedition stopped at a rise in the jungle. They had come upon a ridge of black rock. It circled a sunken expanse that stretched impossibly far with huge waterfalls staggered around the perimetre as though a dragon egg had fallen to earth and cracked apart. Encased below this hundred foot drop was bare, black rock and a frightening city nestled right to the edges without a blemish of green. It resembled a shadow. A molten, wax structure formed in the throat of a sea god.

This creation was below water level. Beyond the jungle, in all directions, was the blue line of ocean and white froth of an approaching storm. The water that collected in rivers around the terrible city evaporated, boiled away by some unseen source of heat making it smoulder like the ruins of the dragon cities.

The _Unsullied_ backed away from the edge. Varys covered his mouth, speech stolen from his lips. Jorah looked to his queen while she left the protection of the jungle and stepped out into the sun. She stood above the city, the wind licking her silver hair. Her arms lifted and she closed her eyes, listening to the filthy screams folded into the wind. It was a city of horror – a copy of _Asshai_.

“Didn't I tell you, Ser Jorah,” she whispered, like the shadows. “Forgotten things at the edge of the world are placed there for us.”

*~*~*

There was no time to explore the city before nightfall so the party returned to the beach. It was dusk by the time they reached the pebbled shore. Those that remained had constructed enormous fire stacks which burned against the failing sun like angry stars. The dragons were gone – fishing as the larger creatures lifted from the deep to hunt, unaware that they too were hunted. Pushed up against the edge of the jungle, the shelter was complete. The structure was encased by recovered sails which were pinned open and full of the queen's people, eating and drinking. The air was light and drenched in fragrant smoke. The remaining _khalasar_ taught their tribal songs to the _Unsullied._

Jorah did not enjoy the brevity. Knowing that the terrible ruin lay so close, unguarded, filled him with panic. It took him several hours to realise what it reminded him of. He'd felt the same, standing atop _Mormont Keep_ with the frozen lands, still and deadly – waiting as _Yeen_ waited.

He was dragged from thought by the intrusion of a wine glass.

“No.”

Tyrion shrugged. “One of the other ships brought some over before it got dark. See – all of the queen's _khalasar_ accompanied the wine. They were keen to be free of the water. They may not be throwing their innards over the deck any more but her horsemen do not take to the water. They mistrust a ground that moves and whose depths they cannot gauge.”

“This is no place to find yourself without wits,” Jorah explained, taking Tyrion's glass from him amid much protest. Jorah tossed the contents in the sea. “Believe me and if you do not – take a look at your friend.”

Tyrion's gaze wandered to Varys, who hadn't moved from his perch by the water for many hours. He refused to go anywhere near the jungle and instead fed his crows, letting them out one at a time to stretch their wings and play at the water's edge.

“For a man that enjoys words, he's not said one since he returned from your little jungle trek,” Tyrion admitted. “I take it the queen found what she was looking for? The glorious lost city. There are too many of them scattered around the world.” Tyrion shrugged. “Terrible things happen everywhere – this place is no different.”

“Oh really?” Jorah replied. “Why are the dragons keeping to the water?”

“They don't like the insects?”

Jorah lofted his eyebrow at the dwarf. “There's something in that forest and it's not a deserted city. I've asked for a full company on watch tonight and I've sent the queen back to the ship.”

“The whole beach heard that row.”

“The sun and the stars heard, I'm sure. If you sleep, keep one eye open.”

“Shouldn't you be at the queen's side, Mormont Prince?”

Jorah nodded at a small light on the water. “I'm catching the last boat now. You should join me.”

“Fuck the boats,” Tyrion muttered.

*~*~*

At some point, when the half-moon was high and the stars carpeted the dark, Tyrion rolled up the beach and collapsed near a smouldering fire. At least, that's what he thought he'd done. Tyrion had actually passed out at the base of the shelter and fallen underneath the hastily built foundations, taking shelter out of sight, beneath the sleeping bodies.

The southern world was peaceful. Water lapped, creeping up the shore towards them. A pair of dragons circled silently in the distance.

Even the jungle was quiet.

He thought it strange, as his eyes fought to close, that nothing dared make a sound.


	19. The Vanishing

Tyrion slept. A warm mixture of wine and smoke lulled him into wonderful dreams. He didn't even mind the amorous sea rocks that he'd spent the night on. One of the larger specimens was wrapped in his jacket forming a dreadful pillow that stank of shellfish. His lips were cracked from salt and any exposed skin itched from a forest assault during the night. He'd expected worse. As far as Tyrion was concerned, as long as he hadn't awoken in the jaws of a dragon, things were going well.

The ground rushed under him.

Stones rolled and stuck into places he'd rather not mention as he was dragged out. Light hit his face like the slap of a whore's madame then strong hands grabbed his shoulders, set him upright and shook until he forced his eyes open only to find them full of sand. A bear snarled.

“God dammit, Mormont...” Tyrion muttered, trying to push him away. His chubby hands bounced off the knight's armour with the force of a gnat.

“Wake up – you fool!” Jorah growled.

It took Tyrion a moment to recognise terror in the knight's weathered features. When he tried to stand up, Jorah pushed him roughly to the ground along with shattered bottles and bits of wood. That's when he realised that the others were knelt, taking cover behind the structure he'd spent the night under. The dragons were close by, looming behind Jorah with their wings out. The knight had come with a small party of _Unsullied_ , all of whom wore the same veil of fear.

“What happened?” Tyrion slurred. “Honestly, whatever it is, I didn't do it. I was too drunk to do it. Lost my belt somewhere...” He began hunting for it.

“No – I don't believe you did.” Jorah turned Tyrion around to face the destroyed remnants of the the camp. Worse, it was empty. A few torn sails. Broken chairs and bent swords. No bodies.

The warrior prince moved forward, scaling the steps of the pavilion. From amid the ruinous scene he pried a foreign object and held it up to the others – a spear of sharp black stone and wound with kelp and feathers from a southern bird.

“Gather what you can,” Jorah ordered. “We leave immediately for the ships.”

*~*~*

“No? _No!_ ”

The queen remained calm, positioned near the ship's rail, watching the bay and mysterious continent beyond. She'd ordered the vessel to sail to the other shore so that she could survey the scene herself. It was doing so now, letting out its sails. Jorah could feel the sharp tug of the wind against wood. The breeze was strong and in their favour – perfect for a voyage West.

“As I said,” Dany confirmed. “No. We are not leaving.”

“ _Khaleesi –_ Daenerys...”

“I am not leaving until I have seen inside the city.”

“This is a dangerous land, my queen. We are not prepared for this kind of exploration. You've soldiers, trained in warfare on open fields – not rummaging through the jungle like pirates and common savages.”

Daenerys fought to stop her mind wandering to Daario. For his queen's pleasure, there were no foolish tasks for a man like him. Her bear frustrated her with his caution and bloody endless trepidation. Not everything was a calculated risk. Sometimes it was just _risk_.

“If whatever took your camp is still out there, which we must assume,” Jorah continued, pacing the deck, “they will pick us off like overripe fruit.” She was about to reply when Jorah held up his bandaged hand to stop her. “If you say - _'I have dragons-'_ I swear to whichever god is closest...” She was amused, pursing her lips with a glisten in her eyes that he lived for. “My lady, you know what it is that I mean.”

She nodded. “Yes, _Ser_ , I know what you are about. Consider this – my people and your men are alive. What then? Leave them as captives?”

The notion made Jorah uncomfortable. “It is unlikely that they live.”

“Really. Was there blood?”

“My lady?”

“In the tents. On the beach. Was there any evidence of violence?”

“Well-”

“No. Grey Worm has briefed me. He is concerned that his soldiers and a valuable sea navigator are alive. The _Dothraki_ agree. You are outnumbered.”

“Truth is not a democracy, my queen. Your men are dead.”

“Prove it to me.”

Jorah bowed low, his fraying shirt rippling in the wind. “Yes, my queen.”

*~*~*

“This is suicide.” Tyrion strapped on his sword and folded several ornate knives into the leather. Even if he clothed himself in blade there wouldn't be enough to protect him from whatever took _Unsullied_ and _Dothraki_ alike. They were warriors by blood and he – well he was not.

Jorah towered beside Tyrion, doing the same. “On that, we agree.”

“The queen's word is law?”

“The queen's word is law...” Jorah confirmed.

“Well, we'll find naught but bones – or nothing at all,” Tyrion sighed. “Let's hope we find nothing. What's that look for, Mormont? I've seen it before. We both know that the queen's interests are with the city not the missing. We're chasing ghosts and evil things, best left sleeping. Silence again, is it? Yes, I guess so. Bears were never known for their conversation. Too much snow and not enough ale. Why else would they fuck the mountain lions of -” Tyrion's face hit the pebbles hard, slammed into them by a large hand. Jorah Mormont walked off. “Yes well,” he dusted himself off. “Deserved that.”

The imp was picked up by Grey Worm. The _Unsullied_ commander had chosen a long spear which presently dug at the pebbles at their feet. Its tip was sharp and dipped in purple venom that smelled sickly, like peach groves baking in the sun. “Ser Mormont is not fond of your teasing.”

“No, he is not.” Tyrion agreed. “He's left his armour across the Narrow Sea. See how he struts into the forest against his better judgement. Is that kind of devotion foolish or brave?”

“We are about to find out, Lord Tyrion,” Grey Worm replied.

“I was afraid you'd say that.”

*~*~*

The queen led the search party.

Firmly against her knight's wishes, she took the expedition into the jungle armed with the unshakable instinct of a dragon. An hour on and they reached the lip of the great black crater. Their _Dothraki_ trackers found steps carved out of the stone which they followed, down onto the flat edge of the city. The ground was hot and stank of swamp and dead things. It was a cancer in the ground. The further they explored, the deeper Jorah's frown became. The dents across his forehead were nearly as deep as the rivers cutting out the cliffs. His eyes were bluer than the water in the falls, almost ice.

“ _Yeen_ , my queen.” Jorah stood with Daenerys in front of the horrible sight.

It was as they'd heard. A dead city. He could not guess how it had been made. There were no cuts or grooves – bricks or struts holding the structures up. Instead they rose from the surrounds into rounded forms, closer to congealed wax upon a table. Between some of the buildings were statues, tall as any keep in _Westeros_. They formed sea serpents with fish-mouths agape with curved teeth. Dragons of the sea. He had no wish to meet a civilisation that built such things and wished to behold them.

“Do you believe the stories now?” Daenerys whispered, in Ser Jorah's ear. With the eyes of all their men on him, Jorah dared not move as she continued. “ _Yeen_ was lifted from the sea by an angry god and its throne tossed to the waves. The depths are empty now, unguarded and left to the realms of monsters. These are the stories from the dragon tower. Bed time stories meant to frighten the young.”

The queen drifted away from him. She approached _Yeen_ fearlessly as a ray of light among the shadows. She passed beneath the raging statues, her eyes on theirs. Fire, water and smoke between them.

Grey Worm studied the cliffs that surrounded the city. They made him uneasy. “Can the ocean breach them?”

Tyrion had been watching the cliffs too. “Not unless the earth cracks apart and lets it in.”

###  **CINNAMON STRAITS**

  
  


_Marahi_ sank into the ocean. The pirates raged on deck, picking through the spoils of their last venture onto the shores of the impoverished islands. Women. Daario watched as they were lined up along the deck. The pirates took turns picking one they liked the look of before taking them back to their ships in exchange for pear brandy and gold. It was clear to Daario that the pirate fleet was formed of individuals with a brokered peace dependant on a delicate system of trade and fear.

“You can 'ave one too, if you like. Pretty one – that one, maybe.” One of the larger, female pirates stood beside him and gestured at a silver-haired girl, shaking in line. The shells embedded in her skin caught the light. He'd have said it was beautiful if not for the finger bones strung around her neck.

The _Jade_ Sea was stained with pulverised kelp. It was thick, suspended in the currents along with bits of broken ship. Daario found it a sickly sight and where earlier the water smelled of spices it had turned rotten. It would only get worse as they sailed to the East. By the time the waters reached _Asshai_ they'd be black and dead.

“Do you like women, little man?” The pirate continued.

Daario wasn't mad keen on the nickname but there was truth in it. Amongst these dark-skinned women and men he was an pale-bellied imp. “Yes, I like women,” Daario replied, watching another one dragged onto a side boat. “I like them better without chains around their necks. There's nothing like a woman's smile, freely given.”

The pirate seemed amused. “None of us are free in these waters,” she assured him.

Also true. Daario wasn't in chains any more but he'd stop short of thinking himself at liberty.

“Though if it troubles you, these women will be pirates soon and released from the invisible chains the world laid on them. It is a better life. Do not worry, little man, we are nearing _Yin._ The others like a good steal and there's always profit in war. It is neither here nor there which shiny-arsed-cunt sits on the throne of swords. It's the dragon they don't like.”

The dragon had been circling their fleet. It had vanished for a while on  _Marahi_ , feasting on livestock and sleeping in the mountains with the gnarled vines and terrified sheep. “You don't need to worry about the dragon. He's watching for his mistress – Queen Daenerys.”

“Are dragons are like the bleeding trees?” The pirate asked. “Watchers of the world? I thought they were ill-tempered lizards.”

Daario laughed, leaning against the deck with the wind in his face. “Ay, they're that.  _Viserion's_ not all bad, as far as dragons go – though he tried to eat my donkey once.”

*~*~*

“Where are _Yi Ti_ 's ships?” Daario folded the brass looking glass. The _Jade Sea_ was empty. For a bustling trade route around the largest country in the East, they'd sailed into a marine desert. The pirates had gone quiet too. “How long has it been since you sailed these waters?”

“Months,” the pirate replied. “We ferried silk to the _Summer Isles_. These waters were two fleets deep. I don't under-” her voice dropped off as she caught sight of something in the water. “There.”

The tip of a mast and crows nest protruded from the waves.

“A wreck in these waters – unusual.”

Daario thought it more than strange. “How far to  _Yin_ ?”

“A day,” she replied. “These are the burned shores of _Yi Ti_ you see to your left. We continue as planned until something stops us. What troubles you now?” The pirate stretched her muscular arm out, catching one of her many ravens straight onto bare skin. She unhooked a message tied to its leg and set it free.

“Stories,” Daario replied. “Before you -” he was about to say, 'bought me' but amended it to, “found me, I spent time with a group of _Dothraki_. There were rumours circulating through the men about the deserts of _Yi Ti_ and in particular, those near _Yin_. Dead men walking near the _Jade Gates._ ”

“Little man, we are _all_ dead men walking. That is the deal we strike with the gods the moment they breath life into us. Horselords are superstitious and simple.”

###  ** YEEN, SOTHORYOS **

  
  


“What is it?”

“A temple?” Jorah offered, advancing with the queen.

They were inside a sprawling building. The wooden doors had rotted away, leaving the city an open mess. Entering one of these structures they'd found a room lit by a veil of insects that had nested on every surface. Their bodies light flickered like that of the stars but the black stone walls made it feel as though they had wandered into a void – a great chasm in the earth.

“Torch...” Jorah held out his hand. When an _Unsullied_ passed him a flame he took the lead. Every movement they made echoed through the cavernous room.

Jorah spent a moment casing the edges and then lowered the flame to a track running against the wall. It caught in a dramatic flare of light then chased itself until it circled right around to the queen. Not a temple. “A throne room.”

In the centre were several lifted steps and a large, flat platform where a throne used to sit. It was chiselled out and now the room was bare.

Tyrion, who'd been hanging behind the rest of the party, ducked under Jorah's arm and stared, hands outstretched. He knew exactly what this was. “This is not good,” he whispered. “Don't tell me you're not seeing this, Mormont because I  _know_ that you  _are._ ”

Jorah was seeing it. He was seeing the stone tentacles etched into the floor, tangled and leaping out in free-form sculpture at random almost as though there were real sea monsters set into the floor. Any child raised in  _Westeros_ could understand.

“The _Greyjoy_ siegel,” Jorah nodded. “Here again – all over the bloody place.” He paced. Circled it. Grazed his flame over the stone. There was no mistaking it.

“Except it was never theirs. They took it from the back of a chair which washed up on their shores – or caught in a fishing net, depending on which drunken bastard tells the story and believe me, my queen, there are as many stories as there are fish. Their gods are borrowed and the great _Seastone_ chair that Balon keeps his arse warm on once sat here.”

“A cursed thing,” Jorah added. The two men of _Westeros_ exchanged looks. If this was the source of the _Seastone_ chair then this place was older than previously thought. “My queen, we should leave this place sleeping. It was old before the _First Men_ came.”

“I agree with the knight, if you value my council, my queen, we should -” Tyrion spun around, facing the entrance. “Anyone hear that?”

Jorah unsheathed his sword in reply.

“The wind?” Grey Worm asked.

“Perhaps...” Jorah replied. He shuffled toward the edge of the door, peering around its oily, mangled surface. He looked upon the city with new eyes. It resembled the broken pieces of sea creatures, seething against each other and turned into stone. Perhaps they were not stone as he had thought but living creatures bound by magic and it was their screams that his queen heard. “Anyone see _anything_?” he asked the men that had been left outside. No one had. “Back to the ships – Daenerys!”

The queen turned and moved deeper into the city, following streets that moved as rivers, meandering in chaos. She could hear the whispers again, drawing her in. Her eyes closed and at once she found herself in a storm. Her boat was caught in the night, teetering on the crest of a powerful wave. Fires burned in the distance, spurting from a dozen peaks.  _Valyria_ broke apart with the ocean rearing up on it.

_No_ .

This wasn't  _Valyria_ . The mountains were all wrong and there were no dragons in the air. She was somewhere else, watching a different world burn. From within the flames, a great, winged beast larger than any dragon known, took to the sky. Its silhouette left the flames and headed to the water before plunging into the waves.

“My queen...”

Jorah's arms tightened around her waist. He held her firmly against his chest. She could feel his heart beating and his steel on her back. Daenerys was fire against him. She opened her eyes and realised the frightening drop at her feet. He was holding her back from the fall. Perhaps that was what he'd always done...

Dany rested in his embrace. Jorah allowed himself a moment in which he murmured to her and pressed his lips to her cheek. When she pushed him away it was gently.

“The poor creature,” Dany knelt at the edge of the pit.

Grey Worm joined them. His first words were in his native tongue. “What is this thing?” he added.

“A dragon,” Daenerys replied. “What's left of one.” She started to nod in understanding. “Ser Jorah, you are correct. My visions are not coming from the rock – they're coming from her.”

The hollow eyes of the dragon skull stared back from its tomb far below. There were a few bones scattered around but mainly only the head was left and it was  _huge_ . Its skull was easily the size of the largest warship complete with fangs taller than Grey Worm.

“The size of it, my queen,” said Jorah, “this creature comes from before the _Targaryen_ conquest.”

“I do not understand,” Grey Worm helped Daenerys to her feet. “Why is it here?”

“Dragons originated in the East,” Daenerys explained. “Eggs have been found as far off as _Asshai_ , anywhere the earth weeps flame. She was probably from these jungles.”

Tyrion was last to the edge. He came at them running, skidding awkwardly to a stop when he ran out of ground. “My queen I – bloody hell – is that a fucking a dragon head? Right,” he recovered and pointed furiously behind them toward the city. “We found something too but you're not going to like it.”


	20. Brindled Men, Shadows and Thieves

“I knew you wouldn't like it.”

“Of _course_ I don't like it,” Jorah hissed, shifting his head a fraction to the left in time to avoid a sharp _chink_ where bone hit stone. “Savages are throwing arrows at me. What's to like?”

Tyrion shrugged. He was short enough to earn protection from the ridge of stone running along the front of the _Yeenish_ building. “Adventure. Danger. Intrigue,” Tyrion listed off to irritate the bear. “Generally knights like these kinds of things.”

“Knights of the realm enjoy drink, gold and whores,” Jorah corrected, risking his neck to catch a quick look at their brazen attackers. “I'm not a knight any more.” _Great_ , thought Jorah, at least fifty of the things moved about on the edge of the city, throwing shit. Grey Worm whistled. Jorah nodded and gestured for the soldiers to edge forward. The _Unsullied_ were excellent on the other end of a spear. They held their weapons at shoulder height, slinking through the city, near-invisible in the shadows. If the _Brindled men_ were rats then the _Unsullied_ were scorpions, tails raised.

“Disgraced knight but a knight you are,” Tyrion continued, oblivious to their peril. “You are still a Mormont prince – _king_ in the North with your father passed and the Starks scattered to the frozen winds. Indeed, should you wish you could rally an army and return home, reclaim Bear Island from that young niece of yours. Shame you lost your sword. _Valyrian_ steel might come in handy.”

“Listen, Lannister,” Jorah shuffled on his knees, moving to a better hide. He pressed his back against the stinking stone. Not fifty – a hundred at least. Their attackers were darting all over the place, scaling the ruins like a nest of ruddy spiders and they were getting close. “I did not lose my sword, I _returned_ it to my father for him to do with as he pleased. Now I'm _Queensguard_ , as are you. Take hold of the queen's hand and do not let go of it. First chance you get, you run like fuck and get back to the beach or I'll make good on my promise to kill you before these buggers get a chance.”

“The queen will not run without you.”

Jorah turned on the dwarf and thrust the hilt of a dagger into his sweaty palm. “I'll be right behind you but if I find you on that ship without the queen, I'll send a piece of you to all the seven kingdoms and a few of the islands too. This hand,” he squeezed Tyrion's hand hard enough to make the bones creak, “I'll keep for myself.”

Tyrion swallowed hard. Nodded. Moved away to find the queen. He never thought he'd fear a man as he had his father but there was something in the bear's eyes. A deeper terror hid from the world. From what darkness it grew, he could not say, only that he never wished to be on the wrong side when Jorah Mormont held a sword.

*~*~*

“They are no men.” Grey Worm heaved for breath, clutching his spear, fresh from a scrap.

Jorah half fell into a makeshift ditch beside Grey Worm then pulled the end of a spear out of his calf with a groan, tossing it aside. A sickening gush of blood ran from the hole. Jorah thought about doing something about it but there was a continuous assault of stone arrowheads against the wall. Each came with a decoration of feathers, many of which had broken free and spiralled in the air around them. It reminded Grey Worm of the cutting ceremonies, where the slavers released a thousand birds for good fortune to the sea. Their feathers floated onto shore for weeks. Feathers floated around them now, resting on the blackened city.

“They throw a spear as well as a savage,” Jorah noted.

“No savage has five legs and one eye,” Grey Worm replied, pointing to his forehead and tracing a single circle in its centre.

“One eye?” Jorah asked.

“One. Three men had stray creature cornered near statue,” he pointed to a body crumpled nearby. Hairy best – breathing its last. A yellow orb was closing on the world.

“That's a nasty looking eye,” Jorah agreed. “Wait on – the devil is that?” He protested, as Grey Worm took the edge of Jorah's blade and tainted the steel with poison.

“ _Tears of Lys_ , ser,” he replied. “Only thing can stops them. There. You will see. Do not cut yourself, Bear Knight, or you be dead before you breathe again.”

Jorah eyed his sword warily. He'd never been mad keen on poisons – they were the way of East. He was a Northerner through and through. They cut their enemies down; nice, clean and fucking final. “Can we take them with these numbers?”

“Scare them back into forest, maybe.”

“Let's do that, then. Make a go at the ships.”

Grey Worm whistled again, this time high pitched like a screaming gull. The _Unsullied_ dropped back and vanished, moving through the city streets. Several scaled one of its hideous sea-creature statues. They clung to the stone tentacles, leaning over a _brindled man_ with spears ready to strike.

The _brindled men_ had five equally long limbs used for running and fighting. Thick, matted hair covered their bodies except for leathery faces which were dominated by a single, yellow eye. Some had primitive beads plaited into their hair, others wore shells around their waists. All carried hollowed wooden tubes which fired black stone darts in a maddening swarm.

They were _fast_.

Toeless Rat, one of Grey Worm's commanders, took the first brave leap from the statue and landed on the creature's back, gripping at its hair. He drove his spear into the neck, twisting to tear away the muscle and disperse the poison. The _brindled man_ arched sharply, tossing Toeless Rat aside. Immediately the creature moved to strike at the commander until another man threw a spear. It missed, bouncing over the stone street. Then another, catching the creature's arm. Nothing slowed it. The creature was determined to finish the commander. It reared up, three of its clawed hands ready to strike until the poison finally seized its heart and it fell dead.

The commander crawled over to the corpse, placed his foot on its side and pulled his spear free. He brandished it in victory, chanting to his men.

A stone dart erupted from his neck. It stuck half way with an explosion of blood, drowning the nearby statue which drank it in. Toeless Rat fell to his knees, the grin still upon his face when he died.

Jorah swung his sword, taking the arm clean off the creature who'd killed the commander. It wailed. Jorah struck again, another arm – then a head. The _Dothraki_ joined him in a dance of curved knives. Their chaotic fighting had the _brindled men_ confused. They scattered into the hills, bearing their teeth and beating stones against the trees until it sounded like thunder, rolling in from the North. With a shiver, Jorah realised that this was the sound they'd heard at dusk, mistaking it for a storm.

Tyrion had hold of the queen's hand as they waited in the safety of the throne room. Grey Worm appeared.

“We leave now,” he said, guiding them through the streets.

The thunder quietened but all eyes watched the jungle above. They'd not gone far. Jorah joined the queen, a knife in one hand and his bloodied sword in the other. He stayed close by her. His eyes kept to the cliffs. They were still there, waiting. The men of _Sothoryos._

###  **YIN, YI TI**

  


The pirates knelt on deck and whispered prayers to the Drowned God. Each captain threw salmon-coloured shells into the water which mixed with goat's blood and burned incense until a carpet of it sat low on the tide line in an unnatural mist.

Hundreds of abandoned ships floated in the harbour. They were in a state of disrepair – some half-sunk, others with torn sails or burned hulls and yet none of them showed signs of war. Rising in a crescent around the water was the sprawling capital, _Yin_ and its famous _Palace of Fallen Stars_. The wharves were empty and the eternal flames that were meant to light each birth had been blown out by the wind.

It was completely empty. Three-hundred thousand people _vanished_.

A pirate approached Daario. Half her face was painted with the ceremonial goat's blood. It dripped down her cheek and onto her exposed chest. “These horse stories,” she whispered, as the empty boats knocked together in the bay, lazily colliding with dull _thuds_ as the waves nudged them free of rotton moorings. “We'll hear more of them.”

*~*~*

Bravery. Irrational Greed. It could not be both. That was the thing about pirates – profit outweighed common sense. Most people who chose a life of crime over the safety of the realm had a short-sighted approach to their future. At least, that was the only rationale Daario could arrive at as several ships in the pirate fleet – including his, made ready to dock with _Yin._

 _Surely it was a gift_ , they had reasoned. An empty city made for easy pickings... All their worries about infiltrating the royal court and locating the historic stone had blown away like the immortal flames and now the wealth of _Yin_ lay at their feet, unguarded. The pirates were sending in several parties to scour the royal houses for gold and jewels while Daario led a search party into the _Palace of Fallen Stars_.

Still... As Daario looked up into the dark, empty windows of the palace with their pale, silk curtains blowing about, he couldn't shake the sickening feeling that the city wasn't entirely abandoned.

*~*~*

Daario's sense of dread intensified as his boots hit the wharf. The old wood creaked underfoot. Green waves lapped against the stone foundations. A piece of torn sail had caught in a lamp post. It flapped sharply in the wind, lashing at the iron pole. He ducked under it, leading the pirates up the tiled steps adorned with images of fallen stars crashing to earth.

Vistas of these stars dominated the walls of the palace. Each panel they passed on their way to the iron gates told the history of _Yin_. When _Westeros_ had been a colony of mud-huts and dripping forests, _Yin_ ruled the East. It was impossible that such a city could vanish from the map in a heart beat.

“Your people,” the pirate whispered, falling in step with Daario, “people from the West, they took their hero from this place and named him a god. Look-” she pointed to one of the panels. It was filled by the image of a flaming sword, wielded by a man with a crown. In the next panel the sword was plunged into the chest of an ice creature with sapphire eyes and a body made of blue shells. “And there is your stone.” It was shown in the hilt of the sword.

“Where do they keep the real one?” Daario asked.

“I have seen it once,” the pirate replied. “Trade was conducted in the king's private office. He kept the jewel on a war table. Said it made him immortal. Maybe true. My father was a pirate also and he never saw a different king. Things are different in the East. Time runs more slowly.”

“Mmm...” Daario agreed. _The lies were thicker_ , he thought.

###  **YEEN, SOTHORYOS**

  


“What is it?”

“Let go of my hand!”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I like it attached to my wrist, your grace. Ser Jorah was _very_ specific about its fate should I let go.”

The queen glanced over to the bear. He was using his sword to slice a path through an uncharted patch of jungle that lay between them and the safety of the beach. She watched him longer than was necessary, distracted by the twist of his back muscles as the blade came down again and _again._ “I bet he was.” He had turned now, looking over his shoulder at her. Their eyes met and she turned back to the Lannister. “Do you think this trail leads to the beach?”

“If it doesn't we'll be mounted on spikes by nightfall,” he replied. “Mormont is certain that the natives fear the sea and I tend to agree.”

“Ser Jorah is right more than he is wrong.”

“If you say so, my queen,” Tyrion replied. “He has been in your service a long time, from what Varys says.” And from how the queen looked to him. Tyrion had seen directly though Jorah the moment he met the sullen knight, mourning for the grace of his queen but Daenerys Targaryen, _Mother of Dragons_ , had taken longer to unravel. “They say -”

“I have no interest in what _they_ say,” she stopped him. “If you wish to retain your head, you'll be deaf to their whispers.”

Fair enough. Between the bear and the dragon, Tyrion'd be lucky to have an ounce of flesh left.

*~*~*

“Are they following us?” Jorah asked Grey Worm, as the pair of them pulled a nest of heavy vines aside allowing the rest of the party to pass into the next clearing.

“Difficult to tell. I am not used to jungles. Are they always this quiet?”

“I have only frozen pines to compare,” he admitted. “Those are always quiet. You can hear the ice crack against branches.”

“I have never known snow. You are used to silence then?” It unnerved Grey Worm. He was a child of a raging city and preferred a night of screams to a whispering jungle. A forest creature fell onto his forearm. Grey Worm eyed it warily as it tapped over his golden skin with jointed limbs. Jorah calmly slid the flat edge of a machete between the bug and Grey Worm's skin, lifting it off.

“Not this kind of silence,” Jorah replied, flicking the insect back into the forest. “It reminds me of -” he thought better of finishing. It reminded him of the frozen lands beyond the wall. Of the cliff where he'd found the broken bodies of _Wildlings_ and seen dead men walk. “Grey Worm?”

“Yes, Jorah the Andal.”

“Do you ever feel like the world is dying? The cities we've seen – the – things we've seen... There might be nothing left to fight for.”

“I only wonder about moving this forest to get to the beach. Then I think about the ship crossing the water. That is the way of _Unsullied_. One foot then the other until the march is done.”

“Quite right too,” Jorah nodded. “And the queen?”

“Will sit on iron throne. _Unsullied_ will live lives they choose. Do you hear that?”

Jorah nodded. “Thunder.”

They worked faster. Everyone had heard the sound of the creatures approaching, picking their way through the dense jungle. As another tree fell, a break in the green appeared. Beyond it – black pebbles and a trim of blue. The beach.

“Quickly!” Jorah shouted at the group, waving the queen and Tyrion forward ahead of the others. “To the beach. Everyone onto the beach.”

The party made it into the open as the first stone arrows fell, striking bark, leaves and exposed _Unsullied_ flesh. Jorah stood at the edge of the jungle, ushering the men through. As the last passed he swung the machete fiercely, digging the blade half way through the stomach of a _brindled man_ who'd lunged after them. The force of the creature sent Jorah crashing to the stones, clinging to the handle of the machete. It was stuck in its back so Jorah dug his heel into the thing's yellow eye, making it howl. Grey Worm joined in, stabbing his spear into its head until its dark blood ran over the rocks, black as the beach stone.

“Leave it! Leave it!” Grey Worm shouted, as Jorah went for the machete again. There wasn't time, the things were coming out of the jungle on all sides, dropping from the trees and crawling toward the fleeing party. “To your queen!”

Tyrion dragged the queen towards the water. The _Unsullied_ stopped at the edge of the waves and turned to defend the queen from the creatures. Jorah and Grey Worm were only moments in front of the savages, barely staying upright as the pebbles rolled underfoot. Jorah gestured frantically at the water. “In, you fools! In!” but most _Unsullied_ could not swim.

“Your ships, my queen,” Tyrion pointed to the far end of the bay. “Can you swim?”

“Can _you_?”

“If required and I believe in this case, it would be required.”

More and more of the creatures gave chase. It was a thousand times worse in the open with nowhere to hide from the assault of stone arrow heads. There were three in Jorah's back already. He could feel warm blood running down the back of his legs as he ran. “Command your men into the water!”

“They will drown,” Grey Worm explained. “They've more chance fighting.”

“Then they will die. You cannot die with them, Grey Worm. You hit that water and you swim. Bring help – you understand?”

Grey Worm nodded. He turned and hurled his spear straight into the closest pursuer, felling it. Then, he picked up speed and crashed directly into the waves, swimming into the water toward the queen's ships at pace to bring help.

When Jorah reached Daenerys he grabbed her by the arm and tried to pull her into the water too. She stopped him. “They're not afraid of the water,” she whispered.

Jorah stopped and removed his sword, holding it to the sun. He stood it front of the queen and watched as the creatures hacked apart the _Unsullied_ on the beach. They fought well and died well. “Daenerys...” he murmured, reaching his free hand down to take hers.

She took it, lacing her fingers with his. “I know...” she replied.

###  **YIN, YI TI**

  


The private throne room in the _Palace of Fallen Stars_ was more lurid than the interior of a Baelish whore house. Huge red, stylised dragons were painted onto the walls. They arched and contorted, trapped by flames and pierced by a hundred swords. _Some great battle_ , thought Daario – another blood bath that history had forgotten.

He circled the room once. It was small with silk covered archways leading off to a dozen different rooms. It was entirely indefensible, finished with a towering stone window open to the sea. They were at the tallest point in the city. Daario moved to the knee-high ledge where he sat and gazed at the water far below. The pirate fleet appeared tiny on the waves, moored between the bleached bones of the _Yin_ fleet.

“There's no one here,” one of the pirate scouts reported back. “Take your stone and head back to the ship. We're bringing another party ashore to search the city.”

“Raid the city.”

“As you like. Take your stone.” The pirate replied. It was not an order but Daario knew better than to test it. Instead he grinned and flicked his matted locks of hair out of his face. It had grown long, these months abroad. A few more weeks and he'd be indistinguishable from the pirates.

It was not what he had expected. The legendary relic which the emperors of _Yi Ti_ kept locked away amounted to a misshapen black pebble no larger than a quail egg. Compared to the jewels set into the walls, it was nothing and yet here it sat on a velvet cushion, alone in the room. Daario picked it up, holding the relic up to the light. It gave away nothing. All light that touched the surface of the stone was swallowed whole. It was black as the crows of the Night's Watch. Impenetrable.

 


	21. The First Snow

The pirate queen remained on board, watching her raiders spill into the streets of _Yin_.

It felt unnatural, mooring in the bay with the pirate colours tattered and proud, caught by a stiff breeze. During the last trade with the emperor of _Yin_ she'd been forced to fly Dornish flags and attend with a single vessel. That's how the free folk liked their pirates – _safe_ in _mummer's_ dress.

Safety was an illusion.

If she'd wanted this city there'd have been a slaughter long ago. Rich men were soft and easy to kill but without their great cities in the East to buy her wares the pirate-way of life collapsed. No more money to fill their holds. Her mother taught her that piracy was a business. Today they would be rich, picking the bones of _Yin_. Tomorrow – if there was a tomorrow – they'd starve in its ruins keeping company with rats.

The silence made her uncomfortable. Death wandered over the world, getting closer to the water. Not even pirates could ignore it forever. Perhaps that's why she hadn't killed the foreigner as the others had wished. _Fate_ was a filthy word to the men of the sea. It was a mistress that fucked with their lives, tore their ships and turned them into drowned corpses unable to rise from the depths.

And yet...

Something cold and wet hit her neck. She brushed it away. It happened again. Flecks of white filled the air. Feathers? No... Tiny pieces of ice. Shadows of the great hail stones from the summer storms. _This must be snow_.

A storm cloud lingered over head. It came from the _North_ with a blue heart and white edges, churning as it clawed toward the fleet.

First came the wind. It hit their sails hard, filling them, tilting the ships enough to send men rolling over the deck. One crashed straight through the side and vanished into the water. The pirate queen held fast to the rail, groaning as her feet went from beneath her. Then it finished. The ship righted and the sails went limp. The cold stayed, as did the fine flurry of snow.

“Captain?” One of her navigators helped her to stand while others rushed to throw ropes to the pirate. “The gods watch us.”

“If the gods ever gave a fuck about the city, it's too late now,” she pushed him away. “Back to your men. Soon as the raiding parties return, we leave this cursed place.”

“Captain...” he man lingered, unsettled. “It's – snowing in the _East_.”

“It'll be snowing in your arse if you don't do as I ask.”

### WINTERFELL – **THE NORTH**

  
  


Brienne of Tarth cleaned her sword in the snow, leaving a stain. _Oathkeeper_ emerged unblemished, gleaming under the filtered light streaming through the canopy of snow pines. Stannis Baratheon lay in several pieces at her feet. She'd seen a flicker of the brother in his his eyes as the head rolled away. Now, there was nothing left of Renly.

The victory was empty.

Renly's death could not fully be avenged while the Red Witch lived. She'd see her severed her head join Stannis in the snow or maybe she'd tie her mortal flesh to a pyre and watch it burn – a fitting end to a monster.

Brienne sheathed the _Valyrian_ sword. In the distance, a storm of hooves cut through the silence of the forest. Roose Bolton and his men were heading to the protection of _Winterfell_. Stannis' army lay slaughtered. The few survivors were gathered up and tethered to horses. They'd be publicly flayed and burned – lanterns for the cold nights which were getting longer. There was no honour in the Bolton house. They were torturers, murderers and squatters. Some said they were bastard _Walkers_ – half creatures that stole skins and wore them from one life to the next.

_Winterfell_ .

Everyone heard the stories of the great  _ Northern  _ lords and their castle in the snow. According to her father it was built from ice and had walls a hundred feet tall. In reality it was a sad looking thing, grey and bleak, partially destroyed from the  _ Greyjoy _ raid. Corpses were hung along the outside of the wall. Skinned. Frozen through. The only redeeming quality was bank of pines circling it. They were unnaturally green for this part of the world with enough deer and rabbit to stop  _ Winterfell _ from starving in the winter.

She tore her eyes away from it and knelt down to start the unpleasant duty of searching Stannis' corpse. He was a tall man with tight armour that had to be wrestled off before she could reach the pockets and small pouches stitched into his clothes. It wasn't much. A small amount of dried fruits which she ate immediately, enough coin to buy a horse and leather maps that would require studying.

*~*~*

The pine forest was green because of the warmth, Brienne realised, as she ventured deeper into the woods. Night was coming faster than she'd expected and with so much meat laying in the snow, the wolves would be on their way down from the mountains. She could hear them howling to each other. Forming packs.

When it was nearly black and the snow started, she happened upon a small pool of water with a layer of steam rising from the surface. A great, red tree arched over it, dropping fading leaves onto the surface like tears.

“A _Weirwood_ tree,” she whispered. It was gnarled by age and a strange mix of grotesque beauty. The face carved into its trunk was caught in a silent scream as if a child of the forest had been burned into the wood for all time. She reached out, pressing her hand to it. Brienne knew well enough the power of magic. If a shadow could wield a blade then a tree could whisper secrets. She rested her head against it, closed her eyes and listened. She must have slept because she awoke to snow and a swarm of glowing insects, dancing over the waters of the pond in a frenzied dance.

Screams echoed from  _Winterfell_ as Stannis' men had their flesh torn off.

###  **YEEN, SOTHORYOS**

  
  


“Pull him up! You there – help the man. Come on!” Varys staggered wildly about on deck. He as a vision in yellow silk, embroidered with the _Targaryen_ dragons. If there was one thing that Varys knew how to do, it was pander to the ego of kings – or queens as the case may be.

The vessel rocked as  _Unsullied_ scrambled to pull Grey Worm out of the water. He emerged pale and crinkled. Missandei was beside him, needlessly fussing.

“The queen,” Varys insisted, shoving Missandei away, interested in nothing else.

“We must take ships to beach.” Grey Worm insisted, trying to stand. He fell immediately to his knees and coughed up half the _Summer Isle_. “Forest men. They come. They corner us on beach and kill many men. The queen.”

“Grey Worm – what happened to the queen?” Varys stood up and shouted, “Let out the sales!”

“The queen, Jorah the Andal and small man all on beach. Jorah – he told me to swim.”

An explosion of fire consumed the beach. Wverybody ducked involuntarily with the noise. Varys turned to watch a pair of dragons swoop and dive over the distant beach, streams of fire coming from their mouths. He didn't know what to say. He'd wanted this – worked for a return of a dragon queen to unite the warring kingdoms but to see the power of a real dragon – the truly wild violence – was a shock. They were not weapons or political games, they were  _animals_ and he'd let this one loose.

###  **YIN, YI TI**

  
  


While the pirates had their fill of the palace, Daario wandered from room to room, following the ornate panels set into the walls. He couldn't read the inscriptions but far as he could guess they were telling a history of the world from further back than any of the maesters in _Old Town_. Some of the stories he recognised from children's songs, others were foreign.

The most startling was a wall of black ice with five forts rearing up from the sand – ghastly things. At first he'd thought it a crude depiction of _The Wall_ but this was different. Surrounding the structures were fields of diamond-embossed grass. He'd reached forward to touch the glimmering surface when he heard pottery smash nearby.

“I said, 'don't break anything'!” Daario sighed and wandered toward the noise. Stealing was bad enough but there was no need to lay waste to a treasure like this. “Come on – go out into the city with the rest of the -”

Daario stopped. The room was empty. A shattered bowl lay on the floor, shivering from the break. There were no pirates here. Priceless jewelled relics were untouched, covered in dust. Daario felt for the hilt of his sword and groaned when he remembered that it was locked away on the ship. The pirate queen didn't trust him with a blade. He made do with an ancient, curved sword with a golden handle mounted on the wall. He yanked it free with a shower of dust. It was blunt but better than his bare hands.

“Show yourself then,” Daario insisted. “Life's too short to dance the shadows. If you mean no harm, I'll do none to you.”

Nothing.

Daario frowned, edging into the room. The further he went the darker it became. Dozens of silk curtains rustled in the breeze. He twitched at each movement, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. He hated this.

“Friendly or not, if you don't show yourself I'm going to give you one hell of a thrashing.”

There it was. A set of eyes in the dark. Blue eyes, peering from far side of the room. A child, he guessed. Daario lowered his sword and offered his hand. “You don't have to be afraid of me,” he promised, cooing as Dany did with her dragons. “Is this your home?” He followed it with a poorly pronounced phrase in the Eastern tongue. They eyes backed away, nearly vanishing.

Daario was about to follow when a hand grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pulled him away.

“Raven's arse!” Daario shouted in fright.

The arm belonged to the largest pirate in the fleet. _Whitewash_ they called him, on account of the shoulder length bleached hair, braided with shells. He had red eyes and a temper to match – probably a dragon bastard. There were many of them in this part of the world. A few banded together a while back and roamed the free world under the name _Blackfyre_. He'd worked for one in _Myr_ and learned that there was nothing more savage than a famous name.

“Demon...” Whitewash pointed his broadsword at the eyes.

“It's a child,” Daario insisted. “Probably scared half to death by your lot trampling around the city.”

Whitewash shook his head and tried to push Daario behind him. “No,” was all he said.

The next thing Daario saw was a silver flash as Whitewash brought his sword down an inch from his nose. The set of blue eyes had moved, erupting from the shadows like a snake – throwing itself at them with teeth and claws. It was child-like but possessed with some form of unholy rage. The force of its impact on Whitewash's sword pushed them both onto their backs with the creature gnashing at their faces. Daario swung his blunt weapon, knocking it off long enough for them to stumble to their feet. It was on them again. Its rotten, black teeth went straight for Daario's neck but Whitewash near cut the thing in half, his sword stuck half way through its back bone. It smiled malevolently before falling to the ground – twitching.

“The _fuck_ was that!” Daario rapidly retreated, wary of the shadows.

Whitewash prodded it with his sword. “Demon.” He'd never been a man of many words.

They left the dead thing writhing on the floor and returned to the ships. Daario paused to watch snow falling over the harbour as if they were in bloody _Lorath_. Already the golden city was vanishing beneath its white coat, like a scene from one of its story panels. “Where are the raiders?” he asked, hand curling around one of the ship's ropes.

The pirate queen leaned over the rail. “They went back. There is more gold here than our ships can carry. We're switching the fleet over.”

“Call to them. We have to leave this place.”

She laughed. “I could not bring them back if I wished. They are pirates not soldiers. Leave your sword on the wharf.”

“This thing?” Daario held it up. “Don't you want to melt it down?”

“Keep it then,” she laughed. It was a useless anyway.

*~*~*

Daario kept to his cabin, locked away in the windowless room with an upturned wine barrel as a table and straw mattress pushed to the side. He'd traded the sword for candles and sat with the old pirate maps, learning the lay of the _East_. As a sellsword he'd travelled far, often on the pay of generals. They had maps, of course but none as detailed as these. The pirates had been pillaging the world for hundreds of years and had kept track of places that empire-employed cartographers lost track of. There were dozens of towns he'd never heard of – the last known locations of roving tribes and abandoned settlements that could be used as safe harbour.

There it was.

Far inland to the north of _Yi Ti_ , _'The Burned Wall'_ ran from the base of the _Bleeding Sea_ to the mountains of the _Shadow Lands,_ keeping _The Grey Waste_ segregated from the rest of the continent. The pirates had labelled it as worthless land full of flesh-eating criminals. They were probably right.

_Knock. Knock._

“Yeah,” Daario replied. _Whitewash_ entered, stooping to clear the doorway. He couldn't stand so he sat on the floor in front of the wine barrel. “Was there something I can do for you?” Daario asked, when his guest offered no explanation for his unlikely presence.

“The snow,” he started. Words ground in his throat as if it weren't used to making them. When he spoke, it was with the faintest memory of nobility. Once, perhaps, he'd been someone's son. “It is not the first time for these waters.”

“In all my years I have never hear of snow at the _Jade Sea_. The water is too warm and there are enormous deserts and half a world between us and the frozen worlds of the _North_.”

“In stories,” he continued. “I remember the ones about the snow.”

“Bedtime stories to frighten small children?”

“The same as yours – is there not truth in those?” The pirate had a point. “Our stories are of the the golden age when immortal kings ruled the realms of men. Glorious kings of unimaginable wealth.”

_Figures_ , thought Daario. This part of the world was fascinated by trinkets.

“A long, dark night came to punish their greed.”

Daario looked up, caught by the strange, red eyes of his companion. “Those are more than children's stories I think,” Daario replied, running his fingers through the candle's flame. Did this pirate see things in the flame? This part of the world was rife with sorcery. The realisation stilled Daario's fingers in the flame. Whitewash was  _afraid_ of him. “Gods!” he growled, when his flesh started to burn.

“Careful, fire burns anything that gets too close.”

Whitewash had seen Daario in a fever dream while he lay with death after a shipwreck. Daario had been younger, with long dark hair worn the Northern way. He stood at the helm of a fleet, flying the blood-stained colours of the Greyjoy banner. Drowned men. The scourge of the seas. Led by a pirate king with lust for power that reached far beyond the Iron Throne. A patient, accomplished liar with charm to spare and a dragon in tow. He was a ghost made flesh. Here he sat, two feet away. The pirate king and a wolf amongst the sheep.

“A common problem in the company of dragons,” Daario brushed it off. “This one's from last month.” He showed off a larger burn on his forearm.

“The dragon ate three of the men last night – our lookouts in the crows nest. I was aboard _The Dying Seal_ and watched it circle and drag them from the mast, screaming.”

“There's nothing else to eat. The seas are filth and the land picked clean by something far worse than a dragon.”

“Is that why you won't go back into the city with the raiding parties?”

“Is that why _you_ won't?”

Whitewash offered a smile. “I'm not in it for the money.” He looked to the maps. “You'll not find answers on this side of the sea,” he added. “The North remembers, the East moves on.”

Daario folded up the maps. “I'll see if I can do something about the dragon.”

The pirate nodded and left.

*~*~*

Dragons were worse than cats. Impossible to control, fundamentally wild and invariably dangerous. _Viserion_ was the poorest example. He was latched onto one of the cliffs surrounding the city, chasing gulls. A hail or rock fell into the water below as he scraped at their nests, shoving his snout into the hollows of rock.

He'd dug out a bit of a nest on the shore. It contained an orgy of murder – including a severed arm with teeth marks on the bone.

“ _Viserion!_ ” Daario shouted, walking the beach at the furthest edge of the city. “You bastard. Get down from there! Leave the poor things alone.”

The gulls screeched, circling the dragon in a viscous swarm of feather and noise.

“Of all the _Targaryen_ blood, you went and got the mad batch. Not your fault. Your mother shouldn't have named you after such a crazy fuck.”

_Viserion's_ golden scales were nearly the same shade as the city, as if he were born to roam this corner of the world. Just as Daario had given up and begun the long walk back to the city, the creature landed on the beach. He felt the rush of wind on his back and smiled to himself. He was no dragon rider but he certainly had some kind of connection to the creature.

He turned and could have sworn that the dragon sported a guilty look aided by a seagull wing stuck in its jaw.

“Quit eating the pirates,” he instructed the dragon sternly. “Now, I've gone and got you a cow. Stick to that, yeah?”

The dragon saw the cow tethered a boulder. It chirped at Daario, tilting its enormous head from side to side so that its neck writhed like a snake. It was almost mesmerising.

“Good, I'm glad we understand each other. And don't sleep on the beach – you hear?”

### WINTERFELL – **THE NORTH**

  
  


The _Weirwood_ leaves on the lake sank below the surface. Its water began to boil, scaring off the insects that had been living off its warmth. Brienne woke to the noise. In the dark, with snow falling heavy, the mysterious pool at the centre of the wood raged.

It spat hot water at the edges, quickly melting the ice and stripping it back to bare rock. What once had been concealed was now shown to be a man-made rockery, encircling the pond. It almost looked like an entrance to a tomb with the beginnings of steps leading into the water to Brienne's left.

She sat up and stared at the strange sight. A flooded tomb guarded by an ancient tree and... Brienne lit a torch fashioned from pine and moved over to the far side of the pond. It was a mess of scrappy forest brambles but directly opposite the tree she found a smooth rock. Brienne held the flame to the stone, melting the thick layers of ice. The rock was covered an another layer of half-frozen moss which she scraped away with her hunting knife in thick, foul-smelling clumps.

_King of Winter_

Brienne chiselled away the rest of the muck, throwing her flaming torch in the snow where it burned under its own magic.

_Brandon Stark – The Breaker_

Then the symbol of a horn. Not one of her father's stories then. The rock beneath her feet was real and so was the tomb. The bones of Brandon Stark were safe beneath the melted snow.

*~*~*

Under those dark, boiling waters was a shaft. The steps led down into it, twenty feet at least before it flattened into a tunnel with life-sized statues of distant Stark relatives, drowned and surrounded by pond life. At the end, a stone sarcophagus with the image of Brandon Stark, laid peacefully on its lid. From there, another sets of steps led up, out of the flooded crypt and into the depths of  _Winterfell_ where a dragon slept.

 


	22. Tears of Lys

“By the old gods and the new...” Varys whispered, clutching the rail as the queen's ship entered the bay.

It approached the beach, venturing into the shallow waters until the anchors dragged. Smoke lifted from the stones, mixing with the salt water as the tide came in. There were bodies everywhere with bright, feathered spears sticking out from the burned flesh. Varys held his silk-clad arm over his face to stifle the wreak of death.

The brindled men had fled and the dragons were gone.

*~*~*

They searched the shore for hours, waving off gulls that landed to pick through the corpses. Grey Worm finished with his final pile of blackened bones. He heard a rush of wings as soon as he turned. “They're not here,” he announced, approaching Varys and Missendai who had come ashore to see the horror for themselves. “The queen, Jorah and the small lion. Not among the dead.”

“Taken then?” Varys asked. “Into the forest by the savages?”

Grey Worm shook his head. “They kill where they stand. If the bodies are not here then -” He looked to the sky. “Do you think, the dragons?”

_Drogon_ had saved his queen once, why not again? Burned the beach and fled with her...

“Wait...” Missendai drew away from them, hurrying toward the edge of the waves where a small body was crawling out of the water. “Tyrion!”

Tyrion coughed up half the ocean, most of the rocks and a few old dragon bones. He'd escaped the dragons' flames by diving into the waves and letting the waters take him, dragging him out in a rip as he watched the men on shore burn – brindled and  _Unsullied_ alike. The dragons saw no difference. They revelled in their own fire, tossing men about in the air and breaking them on the rocks to soften the flesh. It was pure violence. Fire and blood.

“I'm okay,” Tyrion pushed Missendai's soft hands away. Water poured from his leathers as he waded from the waves. They crashed against his back, threatening to take him back into the depths. “The gods have no interest in killing me,” he assured her. “May as well go to war stark naked with a crown of flowers. Hell, if I drink enough of the rum aboard I might just try it.” That earned him one of her disapproving stares.

“Did you see what happened?” Varys asked urgently, moving as close as he could without entering the waves.

“Did I s-” Tyrion's eyes bulged, “-oh I saw. I saw two dragons have a field day with our friends over there. They landed in front of the queen and sprayed a wall of fire at anything that moved. Jorah fought off a few that made it by the dragons but most fled as soon as the creatures arrived. Even when they were gone the dragons didn't stop. They turned on the queen's men. She screamed at them to stop but they wouldn't. You know dragons. They like a good barbecue.”

“But where is the queen?” Varys lifted his voice in frustration.

“Picked up in _Drogon's_ claws – Jorah in _Rhaegal_ 's _._ Then they took off, that way.” Tyrion pointed. “Whoever thought they could tame dragons was _mad_.”

“Well, they were _Targaryens_ ,” Varys pointed out dryly.

“True. There's a big difference between the dragons I read about and those teenage monsters. I'm not sure I want to see them loose on a city.”

“They require training and if my little birds speak truth, those dragons didn't have the best start in life.”

“How are we going to get the queen back?” Missandei asked, picking seaweed off Tyrion through his constant objections.

“There is no point worrying about it,” Varys seemed resigned. “The dragons will eventually return the queen to us. We, however, follow the plan. Repair the fleet. Sail for _Braavos_. If we stop, time will move on without us. The game waits for no one.”

“Without the queen?” Tyrion stammered. “That's going to down well when we sail into the free cities. A slave, eunuch and dwarf come to lead an army...”

“The queen will be there when we reach _Braavos._ ” Varys assured him.

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Because if she's not back by then she's almost certainly dead. If she's dead then all the songs they've been singing since the sun set on the last dawn are false. I refuse to believe that the gods would be so careless.” Or that his entire life's work was a waste. Varys would sooner throw himself in the sea than accept that.

Tyrion was laughing. “Oh Varys, I had you pegged as a rational man but all your nuts are in there.” He indicated at Vary's smooth skull. “Good man!” He slapped the spider on the back.

Missandei and Grey Worm shared a concerned look, possibly questioning how they'd ended up on the fringes of the world with a spider and dwarf.

*~*~*

An ocean of green. Green in every direction. The strip of blue water was left far behind, faded into nothing. Jorah's waist was painfully constricted by  _Rhaegal_ 's clawed foot. His sharp talons left scratches in the steel but honestly Jorah preferred that to being dropped. Every now and then he caught a shadow of black to his left.  _Drogon_ .

_Rhaegal_ banked sharply right. Jorah gasped as the world spun underneath. The sea was back, far behind and a grey range of smouldering mountains approached. The dragons were flying towards the heat, far beyond the edges of the map.

“Gods...” Jorah muttered to himself. There was no point protesting in the grasp of a dragon.

He couldn't deny that the rush of air on his face and the ground far below was exhilarating. No wonder the  _Targareyn's_ spent half their time wrangling dragons, plucking their eggs out of the flame and raising them as pets. All that trouble for a moment of  _this._

*~*~*

Hours later, the pair of beasts landed on a mountain peak, jutting out from the beginning of a huge slash across the earth. They landed gently – opening their feet to lay their passengers onto the rock before flapping around, picking a perch. They snapped playfully at each other then settled down to preen.

Jorah and Dany tumbled over the rock, landing almost atop one another. Jorah caught the queen before she could roll too far, grasping at her clothes until she stilled. Her golden hair blew over his face. Then she turned, eyes burning as if jewels were set there. They lay there for a while, unwilling to move. Clouds rolled over head. The breeze was tainted by something sour. Everything was foreign.

_A flame roared over head. The heat burned. Jorah turned, pushing the queen beneath the waves. The water rushed over, slamming their bodies into the rocks below. Then fire again. The roar of dragons. Screams and arrows. Another wave._

Jorah sat up, holding his head. Pain shot through his calf. He grimaced and straightened his leg out, turning it around to see a gaping arrow hole, dirtied with sand and blood. He had nothing to wash it with. All he could do was tear at what was left of his shirt and bind the wound with the faintly yellow fabric. In a few days that was going to get a lot worse.

“We're stranded,” he started, staggering to his feet. They were at the start of the largest mountain range in the world. A little further on the bare tops of the rock became ice and further still, they stretched beyond the clouds. Who knew how tall they were or if any living thing had seen their reach. To one side were the lush jungles and swamps of _Sothoryos_. A thick river snaked across, diving the land, heading toward the sea. Speckled in between were remnants of black cities, dozens of them – a whole civilisation consumed by the jungle. It would be madness to descend into that green hell. Impossible to navigate and full of the most wicked, forgotten things.

The other side wasn't much better. Jorah stumbled over to the edge, holding onto a few unstable boulders as he peered into a grey wasteland. He could have sworn it was built from ash. Yellow ponds boiled, giving rise to filthy smoke that also leaked from fissures. In the distance was a narrow sort of swamp that might have been a shallow sea lapping at the black lands of...

“ _Asshai_...” he breathed.

Dany stood at those words and moved beside him. It was not the glamorous place of magic she'd pictured in her dreams. It was – dead. Poisoned by magic. Quaithe's words whispered in her ear. “That is our way forward.”

Jorah didn't agree. “It is further than it looks, my queen and we have no provisions. I doubt we'd make it down from this mountain unless you convince the dragons to help us.”

They both looked at the dragons. They were asleep. The smaller, green dragon had nudged his snout under  _Drogon's_ wing for protection. Dragons. The most unreliable mode of transport ever created. Give him a loyal horse any day.

“We'll starve if we stay here,” he admitted, giving the drop a better look. He returned from the edge, dismayed. Both ways would kill them, of that he was sure. “You can choose how we die,” he added. “Chased through the forest by flesh eating natives or starved to death in the grey desert.”

The dragon queen was not afraid. She perched at the edge of the peak, her back to the forests. She set her sights on  _Asshai_ . “I've survived worse deserts than this.”

Jorah eyed the waste uneasily. He had no sword – it had fallen in the water when the dragon picked him up. The only weapons he had left were a few knives and one small  _Dothraki_ blade lashed to his belt. Dany had nothing at all – except a couple of ambivalent dragons.

“All right,” he finally agreed, giving her one of his hunting knives. “On the condition that we camp tonight. There should be water scattered in the cliffs as we head down and we'll need as many hours of daylight as the gods will grant us.”

“You worry more than any bear I've met,” she noted, resting her hand on his shoulder.

“Then you've not met any bears, _khaleesi_ ,” he replied. “I assure you, they are cautious and quiet. You could walk right by one and never know.” Not like dragons. They were in a constant to and fro with her pushing forward and him pulling back, one toward the cliff and the other from the fall.

Too tired to make a camp, they picked out smooth rocks, warmed by the sun and laid down to sleep with the dragons. At least there were no insects here and it would be a foolish creature indeed who would approach two slumbering demons.

Dragons that were gone when they woke with the first light.

### WINTERFELL – **THE NORTH**

  
  


Wolves howled in the dark. The world was impenetrable. Half the sky was full of stars, the other clogged by a storm dumping random sheets of snow over the world. Smoke, pressed down by the cold, swirled around Brienne's waist in a sickening, black tide.

She'd left the safety of the wood and was making her way toward the servants' entrance of _Winterfell_. Fresh bodies hung from the wall, dripping blood faster than the fresh snow could cover it. Crows braved the night, perching on the flayed men, picking at their eyes. The party inside was beginning to die. She could hear drunken singing from within and the smash of bottles against stone.

One poor figure, covered in rags, crouched at the entrance as Bolton's men took turns beating him. He didn't offer any protest and only shuffled a step at a time, gradually moving away from his attackers. Brienne, hidden by an old scrap of hessian, moved closer – ready to draw her sword on them.

“Don't...” a small voice called from behind.

Brienne spun to see two figures following her. One, a cowering man in worse condition than the poor servant and the other, Sansa Stark with a dirty rage of auburn hair and pale, Northern skin. “Sansa!” she hissed, and all three retreated to the stables amongst the horses.

They were alone with dozens of bloodied animals stripping the hay off the floor. The Boltons were as cruel to their animals as they were to the men.

“I came for you,” Brienne started, offering food to both of them. “As promised. I waited for a candle in the window but it never came.”

Podrick returned, sidling in through the horses with a sack full of stolen bread. “Best I could do,” he apologised, handing the misshapen, burned loaves out. He sat beside Brienne, comically small against her frame.

“You don't know what it was like,” Sansa started, clutching onto the bread, scraping it with her nails. “Ramsay's a monster – worse than an animal. Worse than the filth the animals make.”

“And you?” Brienne turned her attention to Sansa's companion. “I know you, I think.”

It took Theon a few goes to manage his name. Podrick leaned over to whisper against Brienne's ear, filling her in on the trials of the North. “And he's with you?” she asked Sansa, letting her make the choice.

“He is,” she agreed. “We escaped together. We're heading for The Wall. I've got three brothers out there but only one nearby.”

“Not Baelish?”

Sansa's look turned fierce, like the eyes of a wolf. “He sold me to the Boltons to be wed, raped and tortured. If I see him again it'll be at the end of my brother's sword.”

“Fair enough,” Brienne agreed. “North then, to The Wall for all the good it will do. There are stories coming out of _Castle Black_ that would turn any man's flesh could.” She nearly said, 'Jamie' but remembered that the Lannisters and Starks had enough bad blood to fill the _Sapphire Isle_. “They were read at court. I heard a few. Your brother is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.”

“If you didn't come for me – why are you here? It took months to escape the castle and you're trying to break in?”

“The lake – in the forest.”

Whatever Sansa had been expecting, it wasn't that. “Beneath the bleeding tree?”

“The same. It boiled tonight – water too hot to touch. Has that happened before?”

Sansa shook her head but it was Theon that found his voice. “Never. My brother – I mean, Rob,” he shifted uncomfortably. “Rob Stark joked that _Winterfell_ was built on the corpse of a dragon. We used to go searching through the crypts at night – got ourselves a terrible hiding from the maester when he found us.”

“That's true,” Sansa added. “You could hear them wail in their rooms for hours after.”

“We did no such thing!” The old Theon flickered through for a moment. Slowly, he was coming back to the world. “There are hot springs inside the castle but not at the tree. They're all around the walls and a pool inside.”

“It's a tomb,” Brienne continued. “To your ancestor, _Brandon the Breaker_ from thousands of years ago. Forgotten, I imagine. The North is very old, full of lost things. Can you get me into _Winterfell_?”

Sansa went cold. The faint colour in her cheeks left and she instinctively reached for Theon's hand. They sat so close to each other that they were nearly one person – two shattered half-lings looking for a way back to the world. “You can't. I won't...” She started to cry.

“Sansa,” Briene shifted closer. “You were a child here. Children can sneak into anything. How do you sneak into _Winterfell?_ ”

*~*~*

It wasn't through the front gates, or the servant's entrance. Sansa and Theon took Brienne and her squire back into the forest. It was dark but the moon had forced its way through the clouds, lighting the snow which glowed. Sansa paused to watch. When the screaming stopped it was as if nothing had changed. The great castle looming on the flat – the mountains behind and the infinite sky. The North. She'd rather be a mouse here than a queen in the South.

“Here,” Theon stepped ahead, pushing aside a bit of scrub. Beneath it lay a narrow entrance to a cave. Buried beside were old torches which they lit. Brienne was last and struggled with the space, her armour scraping against the walls until it opened out into a passage where they could stand. “There are tunnels like this all through the North,” Theon added. “In every castle. Through the hills. Under The Wall, they say. Built by the _children of the forest_.”

Brienne thought it looked natural. She'd seen similar tunnels in her home city which was built on limestone and constantly washed away into grotesque cathedrals of stone. Oceans made caves like this, not children. “And these lead into _Winterfell_?”

“Oh aye,” Theon replied. “The Boltons haven't found them. If they had I'd know.”

They followed the tunnels. Every now and then they crossed a discarded toy. Generations of Stark children had played in their depths. A morbid place to raise a child. Soon, Podrick paused and pointed upward, indicating the faint sound of music. They must be inside the castle walls. Brienne nodded and they continued in silence. The temperature rose. Water dripped down the rock which eventually turned to stone. Vines grew, tangling over the pathway. Then, a sarcophagus.

“My father...” Sansa approached it, resting her hand tenderly on the case. It was new, unblemished by age. His likeness lay atop, more peaceful than he'd ever been in life. Ned Stark – the last king of _Winterfell._ “Our maester buried him here to hide the tunnel. He knew what was coming. He – he tried to protect us but the Boltons killed him too.” Sansa leaned into Theon. “The Lannisters made me watch. I saw his head come off. Jeoffrey took me to the wall outside the palace and made me look at my father's head on a spike.” The same head that was now in the crypt. “Petyr gave him to my mother.”

Brienne felt sick. “The springs?” she cleared her throat.

“Yes...”

Sansa moved in front and led the party through the darkness. There was no one down here other than the odd rat. When they reached the oldest tomb, Sansa squeezed around the crypt and, like her father's, pushed aside the mess of vines to reveal a passage. This one was narrow and cracked. They were heading down again but this time there was a wind tugging at their torches caused by the warm air rushing to escape.

“Gods...” Theon whispered, as they reached the bottom. They tunnel ended in a large, flat stone floor with a square pool in the middle. The room was normally bare except for a few runes on the walls left by _the First Men._ He and the Stark boys made it their hideaway for many years. “What – is – that?”

Part of the wall on the far side had been knocked through. It lay in a crumble on the floor, spilling into the boiling pool of water that looked like the inside of their cook's cauldron. Visible behind the hole in the world was the snout of some enormous, silver creature. It was breathing slowly in sleep – steam lifting from nostrils the size of wolves.

Brienne spread her arms protectively in front of them. “A dragon,” she whispered. “And I think it's waking up.”

### ESSOS - **LYS**

### 286 AC

  
  


Before Illyrio set sail for _Braavos_ , Jeor Mormont took him him down to the docks where the waves crashed against the windows of a squalid bar. Built from the bedrock, there was music and loose women, gyrating through the patrons. A man could disappear into the rush of colour, even Illyrio.

Jeor didn't touch the rancid ale. He was more interested in his companion. “The children?” he asked.

“Settling in well enough,” Illyrio replied, drinking his second mug. He'd had worse. “They like the water. Odd, for dragon children. How many years have you raised them?”

“More than a few,” Jeor replied. Enough for him to be attached. The old bear sighed and looked out the window toward the sea. Spray misted in as another wave crashed against the shore. The stench of incense was overpowering. He hated the spices in the air and instead longed for that cold, silent shore. “I've not changed my mind,” he assured Illyrio. “Actually, I have a gift for them. Will you keep it safe until they come of age?”

“Does Varys know?” Jeor shook his head. Illyrio leaned in with renewed interest. “Now you have me. There are not many things that escape his notice. _Spider_ , we call him – think the name might stick.”

Jeor nodded to the floor. There was a large, leather bag laying at their feet. Illyrio bent down, rustling with the clasps. Jeor picked at a few dried figs while the other man inspected the contents. When Illyrio sat back up, his eyes were wide.

“Those real?” he asked. “Of course they are... You're not the kind of man to seed false hope.”

“When it's time,” Jeor insisted. “And not before.”

Illyrio promised. Three dragon eggs – enough to start a war.

*~*~*

“Poor little things – tossed from shore to shore,” Varys said unkindly.

Jeor Mormont had himself wrapped up in a great fur shawl despite the temperate weather. Bears, Southerners would never understand them. This time Jeor was drinking Varys' wine while the eunuch packed. It sounded daft and soft but he missed the bright eyes and innocent smiles of the little ones. He even missed them getting caught under his feet.

“For you then – back up North I s'pose,” Varys continued. “That boy of yours still having trouble? Young, expensive brides... Love only goes so far. He's a looker for sure but even the prettiest man is dull beside a sapphire.”

More wine poured into Jeor's glass.

“Thought as much. He's too keen to impress. Kings should be born without a cock, halfway through their life.”

“Yours?” Jeor unfolded a piece of cloth sitting on the table. There was a sword beneath – simple, elegant – old. “I didn't have you placed as a fighting man. You'd sooner lift it and have your arms sliced off.”

“Sentimental only,” Varys folded the sword back up and placed it in the chest along with his other things. “What?”

Jeor's eyebrow was arched high. “For a keeper of secrets, you're a terrible liar.”

“I say as little as possible. It makes it easier to keep track of the lies.”

“Valyrian steel is hard to come by.” He touched his own sword that would soon belong to his son. “Don't tell me you're some secret prince...”

They both laughed. “A gift. Of sorts... _Truth_ lays waiting for those who look. There's a man looking for you. He'll be in the grove tomorrow. I promised I'd mention it.”

Long after Jeor had left, Varys returned to the sword. Carefully, he unwrapped the ancient Valyrian steel and lifted it up to the failing light. The sun was low on the ocean. The water and sky were nearly the same shade of gold. He ran his fingers over the length. It drew blood soon as he touched the blade. Even after all this time it was hungry for blood. He'd found it in the rocks, wedged between the shells and water rushing from the _Summer Isles_. The blood from the battle had been washed off _Lys_ ' shore long ago. The bones of the dead were burned or thrown into the sea to become part of the white _Lysene_ beaches. The sword remained, glinting in the half light as it did now.

*~*~*

_A Gold Coat_ , thought Jeor, closing in on the solitary figure standing between the old, dwarf fruit trees. It was a hard life, perched on the cliff tops with a thin covering of dirt. Perhaps that's why the fruit was bitter. Merchants paid a fortune for the intensity. Then the man in uniform reached up, plucked a lemon free and tossed it off the cliffs, into the waves far below.

The man was odd looking with faded blue hair to his shoulders and deep-set crows feet at the edge of his eyes. In his youth he'd been larger than Jeor and, by the look of his sword, a kingsguard of some dead ruler.

“You're a long way from The Wall,” Jon Connington observed, turning to his company.

“Never been to The Wall,” Jeor replied, treading over the rotten fruit. “Might see it one day. They say it's a beautiful thing.” He paused, giving the man a closer look. In another life he'd been a hero now the fumes of last night's alcohol circled him. “Why did you ask to see me?”

“Have you seen this place?” Connington replied, lifting his arm to the island of _Lys_. “There's more silver here than the _Lannister_ chests. You've noticed. Dragons everywhere though none as lovely as the pair I saw you with. A city of ghosts. What's a Northerner doing defying his allegiance to the Starks to help two poor orphans on the wrong side of the world? If Ned knew he'd have your head and feed your innards to the wolves.”

“Do I know you, _sir_?”

“Sir?” Jon laughed until his lungs shook. “Maybe once.” He stepped forward, offering his hand which Jeor took. “Jon Connington, Hand of the true king, Aerys II. I served his son, Rhaegar, brother to the two little things you ferried onto a ship.”

“So it is,” Jeor nodded. “They sing songs about you.”

“Do they include the glamorous end? Exiled. Drunk. Banished to the fringes of the world?” A smile appeared and vanished. “My song is of no interest. I'm here about the boy.”

“Viserys?”

“No.” Connington plucked another lemon from one of the trees. “The dragon has three heads, so some of the oldest songs go. Three dragons, Mormont. You've got two.”

“Rhaegar is dead,” Jeor said softly, thinking this man a little mad. He was besot by grief and what little of his hope was drowned in wine. “Long ago.”

Connington nodded, eyes misted over – staring at the distant waves. They crashed against the cliff like an army at a fort wall and yet all Connington could hear was the tolling of the bells. “Oh yes. The prince is dead. His child lives. A child that should never have been born. You will meet him one day, when you do I need you to give him something.”

The two men sat on the edge for hours.

“Why do you care?” Jeor finally asked. “There's no money in it, neither of us will live to see a dragon on the throne.”

“The same old reason.” He replied. “It makes us do all kinds of inexplicable things.”

 


	23. Threads

 

### ESSOS - **LYS**

### 286 AC

  
  


There was a body laid among the lemons. Blue hair rustled in the ocean winds. A new sun revealed a smile clinging to his lips through death. In front, the sails of Illyrio's ship vanished into the curve of the world. Jon watched them through the night, thinking of times past and a future that might be before falling into the shadow lands. A time of dragons.

###  **ATLAS RANGES, ULTHOS**

**301 AC**

  
  


“Typical.”

There was nothing else to say. Jorah paced in dismay around the bare patch where the dragons were meant to be keeping watch. They were gone. Not a bloody trace of them. The queen was not surprised. They were her children and she loved them but they were their own creatures.

“Stop – you'll do your leg no good,” she insisted. The queen was right, Jorah was heavily favouring his other side, near-limping with a concerning stain of blood half way down his calf. “We cannot rely on dragons. My ancestors made that mistake, look for them now.”

“In ocean graves,” Jorah drawled, “and ruined cities.”

“Exactly.” Dany frowned at the state of her knight until she could stand it no more. “Sit,” she insisted, settling him onto a rock. “Your injuries from the beach are worse than you let on.”

“Scratches,” he tried to brush her off but she hit his hands away sharply and threatened him with one of her fierce stares.

“ _Scratches_ are what _Rhaegal_ gave you.” She brushed her pale fingers over his arm, neck and chest where the dragon's claws had touched. Her creature had not meant any harm. They were stronger than they realised. Eventually, she reached his leg and slid the bloodied mess of wrappings down. “There's an arrow head in there.”

“Spear,” he corrected, as the queen tossed the bloody rag aside and knelt on the ground in front of Jorah. He shifted uncomfortably above, clinging onto the rock as her soft hands pressed and pulled the edges of the wound, sending waves of pain up the back of his calf. His muscle clenched and his leg began to shake. “ _Khaleesi_ , I don't think you should-” he began to say, as she took hold of a shard of stone embedded in his flesh. Only the tip was visible but she managed to grip it firmly. The rest of his words required an apology as the item was excavated. Dany held up half a spear head, dripping with his blood. Jorah took it from her and tossed it off the edge of the mountain. “You'll never make a nurse. With your permission, I'm going to pass out for a moment.”

He was pale enough. “No you may not,” Daenerys denied him, ripping cloth from her dress ready to bandage the wound again. “I'm not done.”

By the time the queen had heated the hunting blade in the coals and pressed the red steel against his skin to the sickening tune of cooking flesh, searing the outer layer, Jorah lay limp against the rock. She re-tied the bandage and kissed him softly on the cheek. Even asleep he cut a formidable figure – although his body continued to tremble. It wasn't only the vicious slice in his leg.Daenerys knew poison when she saw it and it was making its way through Jorah's body, turning his veins blue. He was still alive which meant he'd probably live...

She left him sleeping. The morning sun hit the grey desert first, rising in the _East,_ turning it a deceptive shade of pink. _Asshai_ was a shadow in the distance with the faintest touch of red where its mountains bled fire. It wad odd to think but her dragons were home. Their eggs were procured from the fiery mountains – who knew how many of their siblings lay in wait. Perhaps that's where they'd gone – straight into the fiery world of their birth to nestle with clutches of unhatched eggs.

Daenerys slid down the smooth faces of the rock on the desert side, staying away from the terrifying drop that made her heart race and stomach turn. A short way down there were pools of water collected in the night. She drank and soaked her sash, bringing it back up to Jorah. The cool water on his forehead woke him. Instinctively he grabbed her hand and reached for a sword that wasn't there.

“Easy...”

“Apologies, my queen,” he whispered, releasing her a moment later. “Water?”

“In the rocks, as you said.”

“That's something.”

*~*~*

They drank dry every pool they crossed and had their fill of insects sunning themselves. Several hours into the descent and the large, stable boulders gave way to rubble and sheer drops veiled in bridges of dirt that disintegrated at a breath. Jorah let the queen go first though his large hands were never far away, grasping at her often when her footing stumbled or the mountains shook. He got the feeling that they were at the edge of all natural laws where magic rippled to the surface, threatening to tear the world apart.

“When you're ready,” Jorah swung the queen, who dangled from his arms over an alarming drop. Neither of them looked at the gap in the rock. Wind rushed up through it, blowing dust in their faces. He aimed for the ledge below, said a prayer to the Old Gods and let go. Daenerys fell for a moment, silver hair fanning out in all directions as though she were the moon itself. Then she landed safely on the rocky outcrop with a cloud of dirt.

“Right – now you,” she said, turning to him with arms outstretched as though she had any hope of catching him should he misjudge the fall.

It went on like this, hour upon hour until Jorah realised that they'd be lucky to make it down from the mountains let alone begin a journey across the desert. At least the air had thickened. Every foot gave them strength and insects had become small, rock birds that they could catch later.

Nine hours in, they collapsed against the cliff face – feet dangling over the edge, defeated. They were covered in dust and blood – too exhausted to go on.

“Your leg?” Dany asked, sipping from another pool tucked against a crevice.

Jorah laughed softly. “The leg's fine. This is worse.” He held up his forearm, scraped bare from a recent tumble. They'd both be black and blue by morning. “This?” he whispered, reaching over to move some of her white hair covering a bruise on her forehead where a stray rock had struck.

“Not the worst thing that's happened to me.” She admitted and leaned against his shoulder, closing her eyes. It was cold and a foul mist had gathered in preparation for another night. The closer they got to the desert at their feet, the heavier her sense of dread became. At least the jungles were alive. This place was – not dead, dead was the wrong word. It was a different kind of life, foreign to them.

“My queen, we should not rest here,” he said softly. “This ledge is far from ideal. Reminds me of a sky cell. Those were the days. Great view of the _Eyrie_ though and they smelled better than the slavers' pits.”

“We'll rest where I say.”

“Yes, _khaleesi_. You know what would be excellent right about now?”

“Flat ground?”

“A pair of obliging dragons.”

They both grinned and edged together. Jorah eventually lifted his arm and let her move closer. There was barely two foot of give on either side so they kept their backs pressed against the solid wall of the ranges. They vibrated often, as if they were living things themselves.

“Why does the rock hum?” Daenerys asked, nearly asleep.

“The mountains are still growing,” he replied. “That's how they say the mountains are made – bit by bit over many years.”

She mumbled in response and fell quiet for a while. “The cities, in the forest... Does anyone know who lived there?”

“Maybe the runes of the _First Men_ know _,_ ” Jorah replied. “No one knows what stories they tell. Whomever they were, they were practitioners of magic. This part of the world stinks of it. You must remember that magic has two sides and a blurred line in-between. _Asshai_ may not be the friend you hope.”

They slept as the world went dark and a pair of dragons circled over the desert, playing in the thermals coming from the mountains, singing.

###  **CITADEL, OLD TOWN**

  
  


Samwell Tarly stepped into the flooded street as thunder purred. Lightning flickered, nowhere and everywhere. Salt bit at the ancient stone which was embellished by floral patterns, almost as scales that covered the great stone city. It hugged the harbour, sprawling from the edge of the water into the hills behind. One solid mass of rock, grown into unusual structures, buildings weaving together as if they were vines in a forest.

Gilly climbed down off the cart with her infant son swaddled against the hot rain.

Two green-stone statues loomed above, as big as the gates on The Wall. Sphinxes, with rivers of water pouring over their stone wings and fangs. Each one had a dragon tail, wrapped around the fossilised remnants of _Weirwood_ trees that once thrived in the wet, Southern city but had long since burned leaving only traces of ash in the talons. Above, bridges of stone stretched between buildings. With the sky darkened by the storm, every window shone with lamp like a city of forest insects or the stars in the _North_.

“This is the Citadel,” Sam replied, moving out of the rain with her. They stood between the two monstrous sphinxes while their paltry luggage was ushered off by porters. Gilly wandered over to one, reaching to touch its base. A few street children had climbed up to sit between the grotesque paws. Some played others slept between the clutches of their paws. “They look a bit like dragons, don't you think?”

“What's a dragon look like?” she replied, stroking a crack where a yellow flower had sprung into life.

“Come inside, I'll show you. There's a dragon skull here.”

*~*~*

There were thousands of people entombed in the Citadel but they moved like mice, shuffling through the dark, clutching paper and candles. You could hear them if you placed your ear to the wall.

Sam was given lodgings half way up one of the inner buildings with a view of other, equally dull towers and a market strip below. One of the stone bridges jutted out from the level below. Gilly lingered by the window, watching hopeful maesters trundle across it. There were no edges or rails. It was no place to raise a child but safer than the North, Wall or whorehouse.

The rain persisted, dribbling into their room through cracks in the rock.

“I'll start a fire and you can dry your things,” Sam said, moving over to their fire pit. He shifted the iron grill, decorated with thorns and began sparking it into life. It caught and burned well, lighting the room and immediately drying the moisture on the wall.

“Are all the cities in the South like this?” She asked. “Quiet, like.”

Sam shook his head. “Not from the stories I've heard. This is a city of scholars. There's no court, very few families and barely any trade. I know it's not very exciting but it's the safest place to be.” He handed her the few coins that remained from Jon's purse. “Why don't you go down to the markets and see if you can find something for dinner? I have a meeting with a maester.”

*~*~*

Gilly changed into the clothes provided by the Faith, left her baby in the protection of a city-run creche and headed into the streets of _Old Town_. It was an unusual place. The entrances of each building were guarded by a statue of some sort. Most were monstrous creatures, others were carved flowers the size of horses, edged with pink gold. Inscriptions had been laced between the ornate detail, twisted like spells set into stone which was strange for Sam had told her expressly not to mention magic inside these walls. The Citadel was a place of learning with no room for magic. They'd burned the dragons, rebelled against the whispering words of the old world and ushered in the golden age of _Westeros_.

The lie was that she was a farm bastard, Gilly Snow, fled from the overrun lands up _North_. It was easy to tell and explained her pale looks to anyone curious enough to ask.

Hours of picking her way through the streets led ended in a sudden divide of the buildings and the sails of merchant vessels. The bay backed right against the stone. Gilly approached the gnarled wall covered in gull shit and leaned over, peering into the dark water. Ships, bustled by the storm winds, wove around the island in the centre of the water.

She took a shuddering breath at the sight of _Hightower_. It looked like Castle Black only built of paler stone with a cage of fire burning at its peak. It was nearly as tall as _The Wall_ , helped by a base built of sickly, black stone that stole all light from the world. Beneath that the island itself reared out of the sea, three times the height of the tallest ship. A single, wooden set of stairs staggered up the rocks from a lone jetty.

“Ugly, isn't it?”

Gilly turned to a women carrying a basket of shellfish. “What is it?”

“Hightower. It's a lighthouse to mark the edge of the shore, built on ruins. Same bloke that built that monstrous wall, they say.”

Gilly could see that. It had the look – same square windows and trellised layers. If it was as old as _The Wall_ , she wondered who'd built the castle underneath. “There's a light in the top window.”

The woman nodded. “Aye, Old Man Hightower. Been up their long as I've been here. He watches us all from his fortress. You can visit the island, if you like – take the walk around the black ruins if you've got a bob to spare.”

Gilly kept her money, returning to their room as the rain returned. She couldn't stop thinking about the tower in the sea. She'd been reading with Sam, learning the history of _Westeros._ Sam kept telling her that knowledge would win the war that was coming – the war against the Long Night and the men of ice that were headed for them. She'd looked into those cold, blue eyes and seen the dark magic ripple through the pale flesh. Illustrious cities and stone walls could no more stop the ice than the rain.

###  **THE SUMMER SEA**

  
  


Tyrion couldn't stomach wine. He sat on deck, with the ships rocking sharply in the waves. The sea around him was full of sails. From a distance they looked like a flock of gulls, drifting in the dark. The land was far behind them and good riddance, as far as Tyrion was concerned. He never wanted to see another forest or swarm of insects again. His limbs still itched from their ravenous bites.

“You'll scratch your skin off,” Varys said, joining him. He carried a lantern, wandering the decks at night. It helped him think, or so he said. Tyrion supposed he was looking for crows. Waiting for whispers.

“It'd be worth it,” he replied. “We must be mad. What's our plan if the queen doesn't return?”

“We've enough gold to feed the army and buy our way to Dorne.”

“We need more than money to reach Dorne – we need a ruler. This is the second time a dragon's flown off with our queen to gods know where.”

“She's a young queen and a dragon,” Varys replied patiently. “Better that she learn the ways of her dragon on the edges of the world rather than within the confines of a city. Besides, without our dragon escort we attract less attention.”

“Well I hope you're right because I know something about money. We left a serious portion of it back in that savaged city. We need backing from the Iron Bank if we're going to wage war on a whole continent. You know that, I think. Are there spiders living in the rafters of the bank?”

“That would be telling.”

“You're no fun,” Tyrion complained. “I nearly got my arse roasted for this cause. You could dip your abdomen in.”

“Which is better treatment than you received in _Kings Landing_.”

Tyrion paused – then smiled. “That is true.” He was quiet for a while, both of them watching the waves. “Do you think there's any chance my nephew can be spared? You know – if by some miracle we survive long enough to sail into _Kings Landing_ and wage this war.”

“He's a young boy – your queen is forgiving. She might agree to exile him but it would be a mistake.”

“He's the best of us,” Tyrion added quietly. “A sweet boy.”

Varys was troubled, observing the Lannister carefully. “You must prepare yourself. The game has begun, the pieces are in place. Whether you wish it or not there's a fleet headed to _Westeros_ to remove your family from the throne. This may very well leave you the last of your name.”

A sad thought passed him. “Maybe Myrcella can carry our line, live out peacefully in Dorne. I may even visit her when we land. What is it?” Varys had lowered his lantern and turned unusually quiet. “Varys?” Varys' silence was his answer. All Tyrion asked was, “How?”

“Poison, they say,” Varys answered quietly. “Your brother was with her, sailing back to _Kings Landing_.”

“We had peace with the Martells!” Tyrion thumped the rail of the ship. “Oberon swore to me-”

“Oberon is dead. His widow is full of rage. Your nephew sits on the Iron Throne. _Valar Morghulis._ ”

“Kings too.” Added Tyrion, throwing the rest of his wine into the waves and the gods below.

Varys' eyes were on the black waves. “The gods of the sea are very old and angry. They snatch souls from our pitiful boats and war with the wind above and fires below. Careful what you toss at their feet.”

###  **ATLAS RANGES, ULTHOS**

  
  


Jorah and Daenerys woke before dawn. The mountains at _Asshai_ were on fire, sending a thick trail of black smoke into the sky, lit from below. They crackled and spat at the sky like vents to the underworld.

There were only a few more boulders to negotiate before they reached the grey surface of the desert where they found that it wasn't sand at all but a dry skin of clay, crusted by salt and stretched thin over the expanse. Every now and then it cracked apart and beneath was...

Jorah knelt awkwardly to the ground, groaning at the pain in his leg. He placed his hand onto the rock beneath the claw, digging away at the surface to get a better look. “Unbelievable,” he whispered. “Obsidian. A whole fucking desert of it.”

It was pristine, like the surface of an egg – melted, smoothed and cooled. Tempered into a black skin.

“Forget the _Iron Bank,_ my queen. If you could mine this you'd have enough gold to purchase the throne without a drop of blood. Hell, _Westeros_ and most of _Essos_.”

“Too bad we're out here alone,” she teased, helping him back to his feet. “For now it'll have to stay where it is. Do you think the dragons made it?”

Jorah shook his head. “I think it's natural. You still want to try for _Asshai_?”

“Well I'm not climbing back up that mountain...” Daenerys assured him. “And neither are you with that leg. Come on.”

“ _Asshai_ is that way, _khaleesi_ ,” Jorah pointed at the shadow on the world when the queen started off in the wrong direction.

“We'll take a rest in that cave. See if there is any more water.”

'Cave' was generous. It was a large slash in the side of the mountain partially covered by rubble. Tracks of recent water flows clawed out cracks and black strips where it had been washed away entirely. “Carefully, it's slippery...” she said, as they both fell to the glass floor in a catastrophe of cloth and bone. The sound echoed a dozen times, bouncing from wall to wall.

Jorah reached inside his leather satchel and drew out small torch, lighting with a shard of flint. It burst to life in a ball of flames.

Daenerys gasped. It was, for lack of a better description, _beautiful_. The ground of the cave was solid obsidian. Some of it extended up the wall of the limestone cliffs, streaked with green and red crystal. It was fused into the rock and lifted up from the depths of the world as the mountain range grew. In front of them the cave floor curved away, forming a natural collection point where a pool of cool water sat waiting for them.

They stood, staying toward the edge of the cave where they could hold onto the rocky walls. Jorah led, torch in front, as they crept deeper in.

“It's cold,” Daenerys whispered, her skin pricking up. Breath formed at her lips and soon they found pockets of ice between the rock. She'd never been so cold. It stuck at her skin like knives and bit at her flesh. She'd not seen snow or felt the touch of ice. Except in her dreams.

“Ice,” Jorah explained, taking her hand so that she didn't have to touch the wall.

###  **THE WALL, THE NORTH**

  
  


A watchman on the wall rocked back and forth against the cold, braving another front of snow. It lashed at his exposed forehead, scraping it red. He had little but a rusted cage and waist-high ridge of ice to block the cold. If he weren't so cold he'd laugh.

“What's so bloody funny?” Another man of the Night's Watch said, when he heard as strangled chuckle.

“For a 'mo I thought I saw th' ice melt,” he replied, pointing at a glistening patch.

“Melt? In this fucking shit?” The other man stabbed his bow at the blue clouds rolling in, heavy with ice. “Not been on the drink, have you?”

“Never know. Migh' be the dragon.”

The man rolled his eyes. Not _the dragon_ again. “You _have_ been on the drink.”

“Nah 'serious! I ain' the only one to say. Borris, down in th' tunnels. Said he saw the wall drip n' all. Middle of winter. Water on th' floor. Dragons.”

“ _Everything's_ fucking dragons with you.” The snowfall thickened. “Couldn't see Cersei's arse in this.” Silence fell between them when the winds began to howl against The Wall. It was hours until it cleared. “Maybe it's the Red Witch.”

“Wench with th' hair down t'ere?”

“Snow's body burns tonight. Maybe she's fucking with your wall...”

“Nah mate,” the other man shook his head. “Dragons.”

 


	24. Corpse at the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interestingly I was always going to write this scene at the wall. After the trailer for season 6 came out this week I changed it ever so slightly to fit in the speech so... ugh more spoilers than usual I guess?

### THE CITADEL, OLD TOWN

“I don't like it.”

Gilly kept her eyes away the grim bones. The dragon lay at the heart of the library, sprawled across a marble floor. The maesters had arranged its bones so that the corpse curled, as if in sleep. The beast's head was taller than her with voids where its eyes should have been and broken horns pushed out of its forehead. There were sword marks in its limbs and many bones snapped in half, held together with crude copper rods as though it were some astronomy exhibit.

“Reminds me of-” she paused, lowering her voice and shuffling closer to Sam. The scholars circled them, clutching at books, pretending not to listen. A library of spiders, Gilly thought.  _ “Them things up North. _ ”

“You can touch it if you like,” Sam offered, reaching forward himself to give the snout a friendly pet. “Closest we'll ever get to dragons. I 'ope.” Gilly didn't seem so keen but she eventually placed her tiny hand beside Sam's. Even in death the bones were unusually warm as if they were made from fire.

“Why is it here?” she asked.

Sam shrugged. “A trophy. Your lot keep the bones of your conquests on necklaces, we display them in buildings. There are more in _Kings Landing,_ in the dungeons. This is only a baby.” He pointed to a plaque, surmising. “Pulled out of the rubble, boiled and arranged. The maesters studied it for a while but its magic was gone.”

The sound of rain drowned out the rustle of books. Gilly looked up. The library was a narrow but impossibly tall building with a central cavern that reached to a golden dome. A great spiral of shelves spanned the full distance. There were no steps, simply a gently sloping floor. The oldest records were at the top while the works of the current maesters lined the shelves around them. Hundreds of aspiring men and women milled about like ants. They all made a _clanking_ sound as they passed. It came from the partially assembled chains around their necks. Gilly thought they all looked alike, dressed in poorly formed grey rags.

“You'll be late,” Gilly prompted, when Sam hadn't moved.

He realised that she was right and slipped his hand away from hers. “Remember, I will be gone all night.”

“I know.”

“Make sure you're in our quarters before dark and don't open the door to strangers.”

“I'm from  _ the North _ ,” she reminded him sternly. “These pale-skinned, soft-fingered  _ Southerners _ will lose a hand if they lay a finger on me.”

Sam felt like an idiot. Of course. “Right well. Bye – I guess.”

“Go...” she insisted.

*~*~*

Sam worked his way up the spiral back-bone of the building, round and round. Every now and then he looked over the banister. Gilly was far below, circling the dragon. He turned his attention to the shelves on his right. He'd never seen so many papers in one place – well, with the exception of Snow's office when he refused to tidy. Jon had probably drowned in the offerings of crows by now.

There were fewer people towards the top, thinning out with every rotation he made of the building. At the end the bookshelves stopped and were replaced by glass displays housing fragments of the forgotten world. He paused at one. Inside were remnants of a Night's Watch uniform from a time when the linings were foreign silk, stained with squid ink and padded out with feathers to stave off the cold. In the case beside he found shards of dragonglass and a fragment of Valyrian steel shattered in a nameless battle.

“Beautiful, aren't they?” A voice observed. It dripped with heaviness, drawing out the vowels as though it were a language not-yet mastered – or perhaps it was purely disdain for the common tongue.

“Oh – aye,” Sam replied, before he saw who'd spoken. He ducked at once in a mock bow. “Sir – ah – maester, that is,” Sam stammered.

“Do not waste your cowering on me,” Archmaester Marwyn replied. “The others feed off servitude as though it were the warmth between a woman's legs and they, trembling eunuchs. I'd rather you put up a fight. The best knowledge is always dearly earned. Put some blood into it. At least,” Marwyn leaned uncomfortably close, “that's what the old gods say.”

_Marwyn was unsettling_ , Sam thought. The other archmaesters moved as shadows, weighed down with their chains. Marwyn was a creature intent on living. His stunted, spherical appearance was disadvantaged by an abundance of silver hair. He smelled of last night's tavern and the wench in his bed. God knows, the stories were true but he was the only maester who'd accept the services of a Night's Watch man.

“Not quite what I was expecting, might add,” Marwyn continued brusquely. “Night's Watch – big buggers normally, or tall and thin with wolfish features. You're neither. Born for the books. Northern families aren't much for reading. Still...” he paused to reassess his charge, stroking his excessive belly with stained fingers. “You're no regular grey sheep. Something wild stuck on you. Maybe it was that pretty little Wildling.”

“She's no Wildling!” Sam snapped, before he could think. “She's – she's a farmer's daughter. A Snow.”

“Craster's wife – daughter – both?” Marwyn knew exactly who she was. “No matter. They're all Northerners this end of the kingdom. She could be queen of the whole fucking North for all the weight it has down 'ere.”

Marwyn paused and took a more careful impression of the Night's man. He had soft edges but there was ice in his eyes like a proper man of the North. Good. A Northerner was exactly what he needed. “There are only two types interested in magic. Those who covet it and those that fear it. Which are you, Samwell Tarly?”

“Neither. I want to learn.”

“Not a very good liar, either,” Marwyn was amused by him. “Well, for what it's worth, we all have our secrets here. Brought you this.” He handed Sam a crow's message.

Sam took it curiously, unravelling the small strip of parchment. The bottom corner was stained in something that looked like blood. His hand shook after he'd read it. “That can't be.”

“Oh 'fraid it is. The last Stark boy, dead at The Wall. By his own men no less, second Lord Commander in a row. He'd make a terrible king. Not a bone of political sense in him. But there you are.”

Sam handed back the paper, trying not to cry. His father used to hit him when he wept. Even now, he felt a phantom burn across his back.

“Well, you won't learn anything about magic loitering around the library.” Marwyn led him away.

###  **THE WALL, THE NORTH**

  
  


Flames licked the stone walls of Castle Black. They bled ice. Dripping in sad pools below each torch. A wolf paused at one, stooping to lap the cool water. It stopped – looked up. Red eyes peered from pure, white fur. Its growl was soft, like a distant storm.

A door at the end of the hall opened to the smell of soot and candle oil. The sullen, weathered face of Davos Seaworth appeared as a shadow against the stone. The wolf approached and slid by the merchant, who closed the door and turned back to the grisly corpse of Jon Snow.

It was laid on the butcher's table. The blood had stopped flowing but not before pools of it collected in the grooves. There were tears in his armour where the flesh could be seen, pink and ruined. It was almost frozen by the cold. _Ghost_ sat by the table. The windows of Snow's office were bolted closed. Tormund boarded the door. Outside, the sun was weakening, giving way to the night.

Davos' eyes were locked on the Red Woman. He knew what she had done – what she _must have done._ That poor child, who'd have made a better ruler than them all, burned and left to blow away in the snow. He'd buried what was left himself. He had to believe that there was a point to it all. Those hopes of his were cold and dead on the table between them.

Tormund Giantsbane felt the same. He moved over to the table and pointed at the body, anger rising in his voice. “I thought he was the man to lead us through the Long Night,” he started, the eyes of the room on him. “but I was wrong. The dead are coming and we have nothing.”

Jon Snow's sword lay atop his body. It was clean. The Red Woman touched the blade, dragging her fingers up to the hilt. She was fascinated by Snow's body, as if she'd seen it before. The others were wary of her. Witches were bad business, not matter what side of The Wall you came from. Blood magic had a price. It was unpredictable.

“Who says that you are wrong?” the Red Woman replied.

Tormund felt the icy breath of the _wights_ at his neck. “Are you _blind_ , witch? Your Snow is dead. Those scared fucks outside would sooner run than fight what's coming. They didn't see what we saw. The bones of our petty wars are coming back to kill us.”

Tollett nodded. He was standing closer to the _wildling_. Those that had survived _Hardhome_ were brothers now. “No one will believe. Not until they see it. By then it'll be too late. Snow killed one of 'em. I saw the dead thing shatter under his sword. Now he's dead too and so are we.”

Davos could hear footsteps somewhere in the castle above. They'd come for the body. They wanted it burned in the square for all the world to see. Thorne was Commander now. “I've heard you talk,” Davos addressed Melisandre, “your god can bring a man back from the veil.”

“I have seen it,” she replied. “A man returned six times, no less. The Red God has power over death, just like these creature of ice.” Although she'd never heard of the Red God raising a thousand at a time.

“You're telling me that you can bring Snow back?” Tollett moved closer.

“Not Snow,” she replied, her hand slipping away from the sword. “If the Red God wills it, he will be more than a bastard born of the North.”

The footsteps became a sudden _thud_ against the door. Everyone in the room spun, drawling their swords.

_'Open up!'_ A voice shouted.  _'It's time!'_

“We cannot let them take the body – they will burn it!” said Tollett.

Melisandre tilted her head at the direwolf. “Let them.”

*~*~*

There was no ceremony to it. Snow's body was placed on the ice and then all manner of scrap wood thrown on top. Broken furniture, pine branches, the remnants of ruined dwellings from the last battle – until all anyone could see was a temple of rubbish.

Everyone came to watch. The  _wildlings_ stayed together, bordered on one side by the Night's Watch from the battle of  _Hardhome_ . Many of them wept silently, or stood in disbelief. The rest of the Night's Watch drank and cheered, tossing whatever they could find onto the pile. Some pissed on it. Others spat. Alliser Throne ordered black oil to be poured over the mess and then he lit it with a flaming torch.

Melisandre held Snow's sword. Guarded by Tormund, Davos and Tollett, she knelt on the ice and started to whisper against the wolf's ear.

The flames spiralled around the pyre then exploded from the top, roaring into the air far above the reach of the castle. The sudden heat pushed the crowd back, covering their faces. A filthy hiss sent the crows into the sky like a black rain. Melisandre and  _Ghost_ watched the flames burn away the kindling. There was something wrong with the flames. At the Red Witch's words they turned  _black_ . The crowd gasped.

Tormund and Davos glanced at each other.

“You seen this before?” Tormund asked. Davos shook his head.

The black flames burned without heat. They consumed the wood, evaporating it until the flames were left coming out of the ice, circling the untouched corpse of Jon Snow. Melisandre sliced her palm open on Jon's sword and let the warm blood run over the back of the wolf, marking its fur.  _Ghost's_ eyes were as red as the witch's robes.

“The _fuck_ is going on?!” Thorne drew his sword, brandishing it at group of traitors. “Kill that _fucking witch_!”

Tormund, Tollett, Davos along with half the onlookers raised their weapons in protest. The lines between the group started to blur as magic stirred in the flames.

“You'll do no such thing,” Davos replied.

“Filthy pirate!” Thorne's face began to swelter with fury. “I ought to cut the rest of those fingers off and feed them to our savages,” he gestured at the _wildlings_.

“A smuggler, I'll thank you but it was not clean work, of that you can be sure. Come any closer with that hasty sword and I'll show you what happened on the _Blackwater_.”

Their intentions were interrupted by the howling of Snow's direwolf. That unearthly sound made the ice ring.

“Now...” Melisandre whispered. The wolf broke free. It took off, striding the burned ground before it leaped into the black flames. It froze, suspended in the flame above the body. Then, with a crack of thunder, the wolf and flame vanished leaving Jon Stark asleep in the snow.

###  **ATLAS RANGES, ULTHOS**

  
  


“ _Khaleesi..._ ”

“How many times, don't fu-” she lost her footing, slipping toward the obsidian floor before Jorah's strong arm was around her waist, keeping her up. The torch in his other hand flared at the sudden movement. Cheek to cheek, they paused then, “Say nothing.”

He obeyed, although this time he kept his hand gently on her back as they delved into the surreal cave. It was a strange place, out of proportion to them. _Too big_ , is all Jorah could think.

“It's dead,” Daenerys whispered. “Can't you feel it? There's nothing in this cave but the water.” It flowed at their feet. She could see the deep pool in front. It was the only surface that the flames reflected from. The obsidian remained as impenetrable as the night. “What?” she asked, when she felt Jorah's hand at her side, holding her back.

“There,” he replied, pointing the torch toward the ground. There was a collection of bones, scattered on the cave floor. It was not some random lost animal – this was a collection. Something had left it here. Long ago, by the state of the remains. They turned to dust as his boot nudged the pile. “Nothing has been down here in a several thousand years. We should leave.”

She wouldn't. The silver queen was drawn deeper. It called to her. Maybe it was the dragonglass, or the faint traces of magic, buried in the ice. Whatever it was, she moved away from her knight and pressed further. At the pool of water, she knelt. _Voices_. _No. Not voices. A strange song made of ice. She could hear it in the water – or was it trapped in the walls? Ghosts. Or worse._ Her hand brushed through a peculiar pile of ice beside the water. It refused to melt at her touch. There was more of it, always in piles, scattered through the cave.

“My Queen...” Jorah was to her side. He'd found an alcove, if that was the right word. Ser Jorah was an ant before the gaping second cave, buried in the first. This room had no quartz. Instead it was solid obsidian. A great cataclysm of heat had melted the ceiling into a nightmare of stalactites which protruded like the inside of a dragon's mouth. The only reason he could see the terrifying roof were the pools of fire scattered around the floor where the ground had come apart. In the centre was a huge, red-wood table and on it, a glass candle that appeared to have been snapped from the ceiling. “ _Weirwood._ No one would dare craft such a thing. It is sacrilege.”

“And that?” she nodded at the odd, dragonglass object in the centre of the table. It was a gnarled thing that almost looked like -

“It's a glass candle,” Jorah interrupted her thoughts. They carefully picked their way toward the table, staying well away from the foul-smelling, burning pools at the edges of the room. The table was so large that they had to scale an obsidian boulder beside it. Jorah went first, then leaned down and pulled Daenerys up after him, doing his best to avoid the bruises on her arms from their earlier climb. It was a good thing that the lighting was poor as they both looked like hell.

It was a very bizarre feeling, walking the surface of the table as though they were ants thieving scraps. The candle itself was normal sized and all alone.

“What are glass candles?” she asked.

“Magical things,” Jorah replied, wiping sweat from his face. The flaming pool nearby were impossibly hot, leaving the air suffocating and most likely toxic. “The red priests have them and a few maesters in _Westeros_. They're out of fashion but a couple of hundred years ago your kind used to use them to communicate. There are probably several left in the ruins of _Valyria._ This one isn't working though. I haven't heard of one being lit in three-hundred years. It takes-”

“Magic?” she replied, a dangerous twinkle in her eye.

Jorah sighed patiently at his queen.

### THE CITADEL, OLD TOWN

It was dark and Sam had been cooling his feet in the vaults of the citadel for several hours. Marywn, _fuck knows where Marywn was_. Probably forgotten about him and stumbled into a tavern. Sam fiddled with the empty chain around his neck. It didn't even have an introductory link on it. He felt strange in the scratchy, grey cloth. All he'd done was trade black for grey and nothing more. If he was perfectly honest, he preferred the Black. _It was for a purpose_ , he reminded himself firmly. Even if Snow was dead, the _Others_ were coming.

“What are you doing 'ere?”

Sam spun around and bumped into a table, knocking an oil lamp over. He fumbled over it hastily. “Uh I – was told to wait.”

“Not 'ere, you fool. Come on. Late already.” The older maester was half blind with a swollen, pale eye, grabbing at Sam until he got a fist full of his robes and tugged him down the corridor. “Too many new ones. In my day being a maester required diligence, skill – a sense of direction!”

“Oh – I'm not a-”

“Timing doesn't hurt. And to think, your lot 'll be teachin' those paper kings. Seven gods won' be enough to save the kingdoms with you lot at the helm. Go on, in!”

“I don't under-”

“Get in!” The old maester shoved Sam into the stone room with considerable force for an old man. It was lit only from the light at the door. In the centre of the room, placed on the barren floor, were three black glass candles. They were ugly, sharp things about half a foot high.

Sam saw them and realised at once the mistake. “Maester-” The door was slammed on Sam's face before he could get another word in. Everything went black. It was the kind of pitch that he imagined death to be. He wasn't afraid of the dark but there was a certain, unsettling quality about a void. If this was death he didn't fancy hastening its arrival. “Right then...” Sam was resigned. He paced a few steps into the room and then sat on the ground, feeling around for the candles.

They were sharp. Unpleasant to the touch. Exactly like the dragonglass daggers wrapped in his Night's Watch cloak. There was no wick at their tip – nothing to burn except the glass itself. Not that he could light them. Glass candles worked on magic and Sam's blood didn't have a drop of witchcraft, of that he was certain. It was no surprise that the maesters couldn't get these things to work. You needed a witch, or a dragon. Considering he had neither, he prepared for a long, dark night.

###  **ATLAS RANGES, ULTHOS**

  
  


“What is a thing like this doing in a cave at the edge of the world?” Daenerys asked. “Say what you haven't said, _ser_.”

Jorah flinched. “It's only – the size of the cave, your grace. The table we stand on. It sounds like-”

“Like _what_?”

“A giant's tomb.”

She turned to him, dirty pale hair stuck to a cut on her shoulder. “The giants are stories of the North.”

“True ones,” he assured her. “I have seen giant bones myself. There was an abandoned giant cave on _Bear Island_. We used to play in it when we were boys. Same look about it.”

“But that is the North. We are further South than any one has been.”

“The world is not a piece of parchment, my queen. It is like a dragon egg. The sailors know. All the waters are the same, twisting around the lands. We breath the same air. If you go far enough East you'll end up West. If we keep going South surely we'll find the snows.”

“I've heard that before...” Dany was troubled.

“If I still had lands I'd wager them all that there's an ocean to our right and it's called _The Sunset Sea_.” Which meant that Jorah was closer to home than he'd been in years. Not that it was his home any more. If he showed his face he'd be marched to the sword. He longed for the forests sometimes. For the cool touch of snow on his face and the silence. If they lived he hoped to return there and live out his days amongst those trees in a cabin, far from the world.

“Jorah?”

“We should bring the candle with us,” he shook himself back to reality. It must be the poison in his body, causing his mind to drift. His leg had stopped hurting but he couldn't tell if that was a good or bad thing in this light.

Daenerys agreed. “All right.” She approached the horrid thing, kneeling in front of it. _Curious_ , the thought, it didn't look like a candle at all but a -

A brilliant, green flame erupted from the glass candle the moment she drew near. Both of them were startled by the ungodly sight. It was silent, cold – burning from the stone itself. They'd always said that dragonglass was fire trapped in stone, perhaps that was a literal description. Daenerys reached for it, drawn to the flame. She was vaguely aware of Jorah's protest but a moment later her fingertips touched the flame.

_She was somewhere else. There was darkness then a round, panicked man retreating. Light – ravens and a tower somewhere in the North for there was snow beyond a window. Then eyes, blue as the oldest ice. They saw her._

“No! You must not touch!” Jorah dragged Daenerys away from the flame. It extinguished. They fell to the _Weirwood_ table, his arms around her waist and head on her shoulder. Her skin was freezing beneath his. He rubbed his hands over it, trying to warm her from the shock. “Daenerys? Daenerys...”

Eventually she stirred and turned to him. “What was that?”

“Glass candles are windows,” he explained. “You cannot control what you see – or what sees you. They are as dangerous as they are useful.”

“But I saw – eyes. Strange eyes... Blue and old.”

Jorah's alarmed gaze focussed on the candle. He stilled against his queen and simply held her instead. “That, my queen,” he whispered, “was a _Whitewalker_. An undead demon of the North.”

“Is that what you seen in your dreams?” she whispered.

“No,” he replied. “Not in a dream.”

### THE CITADEL, OLD TOWN

Sam stared at the three flames. One green, one red and the other an unusual purple he'd seen only in pressed flowers from the _Summer Isles_. In the green flame was a woman with silver hair and the eyes of a dragon. Then the hideous image of the _Night's King_ , peering curiously out from the fire. He'd seen those eyes in a haze of violence the night he'd saved Gilly. The other flames were empty. They continued to burn for a moment until the woman vanished, then all three extinguished.

He was left clutching his chest. Magic was waking.

The door opened, startling him afresh. That bastard Marwyn was there, silhouetted like a demon. He carried a _Valyrian_ steel rod, tapping it on the stone. He'd traded the grey maester robes for fine silver ones.

“Interesting,” was all he said.

 


	25. The Giant's Tomb

 

###  **ATLAS RANGES - ULTHOS**

Jorah Mormont wrapped the glass candle in scraps of cloth and leather. He hid it in his satchel and turned to find Daenerys perched on the edge of the giant's table, running her hands over the bleeding wood. He came to stand beside her, leaning heavily on his good leg.

“Why is the wood red?” she asked. It was rough at her touch, splintering a thousand times into her skin. “No craftsman in the East would use it for anything but kindling. Even the _Dothraki'd_ turn their noses.”

“It's fused with blood, so the legends go,” he replied. “When the Faith of the Seven first took over _Westeros_ they deliberately made idle things out of the sacred trees. It was a form of sacrilege to the Old Gods and the First Men. Everything was burned in the end. The most paranoid of the Kings thought the power of the wood lived on and that there were creatures watching them from inside their chairs and tables.” Jorah laughed softly. “They play so many games in the South that they lose sight of what's real. Snitching furniture is not.”

“That does not explain what it's doing in this cave.”

“No, I suppose not,” he admitted. It was suffocatingly hot. Jorah's shirt stuck to his skin while several of his worst cuts bled through the fabric, enticed by the sickly air. “Although I did notice a great deal of red scattered through the jungle on our flight over... I did wonder.”

“Wonder if they were _Weirwood_ trees?”

He nodded. “Indeed. There are many things that we don't know about this part of the world, including how a giant founds its way from the North. It must have walked which can only mean that there was a land bridge to _Essos._ What's troubling you?”

Daenerys pointed to the flaming pools. They hissed and writhed, reminding Daenerys of her brother's flesh, boiling beneath a layer of gold. Those years were so far away and yet clear in her mind. She couldn't let the vision go. Why had she looked? Was it better to know the horrors of the world or continue toward the shadows?

“I wouldn't worry about those,” he assured her.

“I just can't help thinking,” she whispered, “is that what _Valyria_ is like? Filth and flame? Is that what dragons make of the world?” Daenerys was upset, a tear sliding through the scratches on her cheek. The salt stung. Her dreams of The Doom were as vivid as her brother. She'd felt the ground shake and the world crack apart. The city had been consumed by the fires that built it.

“Oh, my queen,” Jorah reached down, gently easing her back to her feet, turning her away from the scene. He made sure that he had her attention before continuing. “You are _not Old Valyria_ ,” he assured her. “I've seen the way you rule and it is nothing like the kings and queens of your past, or even mine. I think -” he stopped a moment, not sure if he should continue. His hands were at her cheek, wiping away the tears he couldn't bear to see. “-I think your rule will atone for the mistakes of the past.”

“Is that why you follow me?”

_No._

“You know why I follow you,” he replied softly.

Daenerys leaned closer, reaching up to place her hand over his. “To send information back to Varys?”

This time they both laughed until their foreheads touched, seeking out comfort. “It is as good a reason as any, your Grace.”

“Liar...”

His kiss didn't lie. Daenerys fell into it, allowing herself to forget that they were at the edge of the world, soon to die and thought instead only of silent forests in the snow.

Jorah never shared what troubled him or the reason he often watched her in the firelight with more than longing.

He flinched from her hands when they found an open cut on his chest. Daenerys broke their kiss and fixed him with one of her stern looks famous with dragons the world over. “You never told me about this one...” she snapped crossly.

“I was afraid you'd try and fix it, your Grace,” he replied honestly. That earned him a playful slap which he probably deserved.

“Well you're safe. We've nothing left to attend to it,” she pointed out. “Yesterday I was a queen,” she added wistfully, then ran her hands over the tattered remnants of her clothes.

“You are are still _the_ queen,” he assured her.

Daenerys danced her fingers absently over his lips, near killed him, then broke away to find a way down from the _Weirwood_ table. When he'd located enough courage to follow, they returned to the main cavern and drank from the cool water.

Jorah's attention was stolen by one of the mysterious piles of pulverised ice beside the pool. He moved the flame of his torch closer, nearly touching it. The ice refused to melt, even at the first lick of flame. It wasn't ice.

“What has you so intent?” Daenerys asked, from the other side of the pool.

“Not sure...” He ran the handle of the torch through the granules, which fell away like sand. A soft _clink_ stopped him. Jorah frowned, digging with his free hand instead until he recovered an obsidian spear head at the centre of the pile. He sat back, the leathers of his boots creaking against the floor. Jorah shifted his gaze from the pile at his knees to several others, scattered through the cave. After a while he paced over to another, dragging his hand unceremoniously through it until a dragonglass dagger clattered against the floor.

Jorah backed away from it, standing anxiously. Slowly, he turned and truly observed the cave, understanding. A dozen piles at least. He stopped at a questioning set of dragon eyes.

“It's not ice, is it?”

“No, _khaleesi._ It's something much worse.”

They searched each pile. Most had an obsidian weapon of some kind buried within. Beside one of them, Jorah's suspicions were confirmed. “Over here...” he called his queen. Jorah shone the flame over a five foot spear of ice, bound with lengths of black leather. It was ethereal, neither steel nor ice but some form of impossible weave of the two. “I've never seen one before,” he continued. “I doubt any man has held one.” Jorah was almost afraid to touch the _Whitewalker_ weapon in case it lashed out at him in fury. Eventually he found his Mormont nerve and plucked it from the tomb.

The weight surprised him. It was heavy in his grip and riddled with magic. He could feel it rippling up his arm, bringing with it an unusual chill. He had expected it to exude evil but it did not. Magic, fire or ice, felt the same in his grip.

“We shouldn't have this, _khaleesi_ ,” he whispered, holding it away from his body. It was a stunning thing. Beautiful. Enthralling. _Horrific._

“Are you saying that these are the corpses of those things in the _North_?”

He nodded. “I don't understand how but there was a battle here. The dragonglass killed them. It must have been freezing for them to reach this far _South_.”

They were both thinking it. _The Long Night_. There were stories all over the world.

“Keep the spear,” she commanded. “If we're not meant to have it, all the better that we do.” Jorah nodded. “And we're not leaving until we search this cave properly.” Daenerys pried another torch off the wall and held it to Jorah's until a flame erupted between the two.

*~*~*

Thirty-nine _Whitewalker_ corpses at final count. There were no more ice weapons but in the cave's entrails they found the bones of the giant that had lived there. It was large but not the monster she'd dreamt of from Ser Darry's stories. This creature was laid on its side peacefully, wrapped in a patchwork of direwolf furs. He'd certainly outlasted the _Whitewalkers_.

Tucked beside the skeleton was something that they could not ignore.

“Are they?”

“They sure are...” Jorah agreed. It was a stash of dragonglass weapons, tied up inside old travelling packs that were perfectly preserved in the cool of the cave.

“We can't possibly carry even half of this,” Daenerys dismayed.

“No but your dragons could. We can tie the straps to the horned ridges on their backs.”

“You mean the dragons that we haven't seen for several days?”

“Those are the ones, your grace.”

“Why are you looking at me like that, ser?” Jorah's eyebrow arched further. “I don't know what you expect me to do, they come and go as they please. Stop it. I command it.”

*~*~*

Hours later and countless falls on the treacherous cave floor, the ancient weapon cache sat on the desert in front of the cave. There was enough to arm their entire force and more beside. In the light, Jorah noticed that the queen looked like a common peasant. Hell knows what a passer-by might make of him, especially with the addition of the five foot spear strapped to his back.

Daenerys turned her attention to the sky. It was full of smoke from the smouldering mountains at _Asshai_ and moisture sinking off the _Atlas Ranges_ behind them. A ripple of thunder ran through where the two met. There certainly weren't any dragons in sight.

“How does it go?” she asked, ser Jorah. “What did you sing to them when we were in the _Red Waste_?”

Jorah knew one of the _Valyrian_ dragon songs. His father had sung it to him when the winter storms raged, threatening to bring the world down. All the _Targaryen_ children used to know the songs but Daenerys was an orphan of her own culture.

“ _Alai noquoire, sarl hu riar...”_ he sang, stepping through the desert toward her. They were words of blood that slipped into the air like silk.

There was an unexpected melody in the knight's voice. It broke, wavered and held its tone in a way she expected the mountains to sing. It was an older form of  _High Valyrian,_ rarely heard. Odd, how a language could vanish – replaced by another version of itself, like the succession of thrones.

Daenerys closed her eyes. She'd heard these words before when she was small, sung in that same icy-gravel. Why did she know those words so well?

Dragon songs were meant to lure the beasts from the air. Hundreds of years ago, they were common place but Jorah had no idea if it would work on untrained dragons. He'd sung it to them when they were little things, just in case. They'd chirped at him, leaping in and out of the camp fire flames, scaring the horses. It used to get him into trouble with some of the queen's less patient ladies who thought he was stirring the creatures up – or practising magic. He was almost sure neither of those were true.

Jorah was almost out of breath when he heard a terrifying flap of wings on the air. He tapped Daenerys on the shoulder. Still singing, they both turned to see _Rhaegal_ playfully clip the mountain peak with his claws, showering them in dust. The queen covered her head with her hands as it rained down over them. Jorah couldn't stop grinning. _Rhaegal_ had always been the most playful of the three. He must have remembered.

“Well there you are, you silly lizard...” he greeted, as the beast landed in front of them. It flapped its wings excitedly, buffeting them with more dust. Jorah was sure that he'd grown even in these few short days. “Beautiful, isn't he?”

“I think you have a soft spot for my dragons,” Daenerys pointed out, with mock disapproval. “You spoiled them when they were small and you spoil them still.”

Jorah didn't care. He bowed at the creature, which returned one in kind – then nudged forward and nearly knocked the bear over with enthusiasm.

*~*~*

At dusk, _Rhaegal_ took to the sky, weighed down with bags of dragonglass. His silhouette shrank as he veered left, found a current of ocean air and flattened his wings.

“Do you believe there's any chance that worked?” Daenerys asked, standing beside the knight.

“You showed him the image of the boat?”

Daenerys nodded. “That's _all_ I did while you tied those things to him.”

Jorah shrugged. “Well, that's how it's meant to work. At least he's headed the right the way. I'd loved to be on deck when he lands. Someone's going to have to get all that off him.”

“It won't be Grey Worm. He's terrified of the dragons.”

“Drogon attempted to eat him.”

“By accident.”

“Twice. Are you ready?” The queen was exhausted but to linger in this place was surely death. Instead she nodded. “Cheer up, your Grace,” Jorah continued. “Perhaps Drogon will show up and give us a lift.”

The queen side-eyed her knight.

###  **THE FEVER RIVER - ULTHOS**

_Drogon_ barely noticed his brother clamber through the thick forest, clawing up one of the water trees. A moment later the other dragon was gone, scaring a flock of white birds as took off in the direction of the song, whispering over the mountains.

Feathers rained down with leaves and bits of bone as the enormous black dragon folded its wings closer to its body. _Ulthos_ was choked with dense forest, grown from black earth that had once burned for a thousand years. _The Great Fire Sea_ , they'd called it. Now it was a mess of poisoned water and tangled jungles. Swarms of biting insects circled him but got nowhere with the impenetrable dragon hide. Every now and then _Drogon_ snapped at them, slamming his jaws closed with sickening _snaps_. They didn't quite fit together, with his bottom fangs sitting against the edge of his snout – always visible. If anything, it gave the dragon a malevolent air. So too did remnants of human flesh from the massacre on the beach.

At the point where _The Fever River_ met the _Yellow Stain_ , sat sprawling _Weirwood._ Supported by the jungle, it had grown far larger than any of its frozen cousins. _Drogon_ , who was already the size of _Braavosi_ house, was dwarfed under one of the lower limbs. Most of its weight loomed above the canopy, exploding in a vision of red as though it were fire itself.

The dragon pawed at the roots, which themselves rose and fell, dipping in and out of the wet ground like serpents. He couldn't get any nearer. It was impossible for a creature his size to navigate the mess of roots and mud without becoming stuck, so instead the dragon dipped its head back _and started to sing_.

A hideous, screaming face trapped in the bark listened while all thousand eyes, and one watched on.

###  **A CAVE – BEYOND THE WALL**

An old man cried out as the dragon song filled his ears. It was all consuming, reverberating down the trembling roots of the _Weirwood_ trees that had grown through his body. He was neither living nor dead. A parasite, some would say, existing through the network of seeing trees.

There was a dragon in his vision – a filthy, black beast, born of the fire-rocks. It screeched at the magic of the forest, sounding its warning to the Old Gods, announcing its presence to the world. The warmth burned Byrnden Rivers, making the roots in the cave twist sharply together, taking some of his flesh with them. The heat – it had been an age since he'd felt the flame of a dragon's breath. There was nothing to compare to it, for they were fire and magic.

Beside the dragon was a silver girl, dressed in rags with an aging knight. The Mormont sigil was crafted into his Ghiscari robes. He held a lemon, which he offered to the girl as the ground beneath them caught fire, roaring over the tree until he saw only flame and blood. His old house words. He thought those had died with an old man at the wall.

“Do _not_ touch that.” The Blood Raven stirred on his throne of roots. His one good eye cracked open from its sunken hide to see Bran Stark hover near his old _Valyrian_ blade.

“They're coming!” Bran whispered urgently. “Can't you hear them?”

“I can see them,” the old man hissed back. “Dancing about in the snow. What is it that you think you'll do with that sword? A cripple and a tree? Your days of sword wielding were done before they began.”

Bran itched to take the blade. His father would have. His brothers – Arya even. She'd have been first. _Dark Sister_ was a slender instrument, faintly curved and made for queens. There was a layer of blood dried on its edge. It had been left, forgot, among the bones and whispers of the trees.

 


	26. Jade Gates

###  **YIN – YI TI**

Three days. Three days spent roaming the fallen shore of _Yin._ Three days of losing every seaman's game offered by the pissed, foul-living pirates from the depths of their floating prisons. _Three days waiting for the raiding parties to return._ The pillaging crews worked in shifts, raping the city before circling back to drop their pickings onto the waiting ships which dipped in the water line, bellies full. They groaned like whales, cycling through the treacherous harbour, slipping between the decaying wrecks of _Yin's_ trade ships.

Daario was caught by the morbid sense that they'd transformed into tomb robbers, stripping gold from the walls of sacred kings' crypts while angry ghosts looked on. At least the dragon was entertained, exploring the cliffs and the thousands of edible gulls that lived within the crevices. The pirates were used to _Viserion_. Some even hollered out to him, bolstered by rum.

Another morning broke and with it, snow. It was coming heavier than before, covering the golden city in a conspicuous white coat. If the unusual vista alarmed the pirates they kept it to themselves, stumbling about the deck getting fat on idleness. They were relaxing to Daario's presence. He had become a fixture on deck, begrudgingly accepting odd tasks until no one bothered to watch him any more. Except for the captain. She didn't trust the sell-sword. It was the lowest profession a man could take and thus, she reasoned, the man must also be of low quality to take it.

“Today is your turn,” she announced her presence, striding over the deck wrapped in a fox-fur shawl. It was dyed a vile blue for some foreign lady they'd left murdered in their wake.

“Aren't there enough pirates in the city, captain?” Daario replied, resting casually with one arm on the ship's rail. The boat rocked gently with the tide. In a moment it'd be hit by the wash of a passing ship, ready to unload a new wave of raiders onto the shore. “Or are you merely tired of my face?”

“Let's not find out,” she countered smoothly. “I may even let you keep some of you haul this time. A proper pirate we'll make of you.”

“Then we sail for Westeros?”

“I did promise.” Her eyes moved to the dragon. It had abandoned the cliff and was circling along the edge of the shore, stalking a muddle of sea turtles dragging their enormous bodies out of the water to lay eggs. It was clear that she was eager to be rid of their fire-breathing escort. There was enough money to last them years. That was an eternity in the pirate trade.

Daario smirked and blew the captain a mocking kiss.

*~*~*

“Did our beloved mistress of the seas rope you into tagging along?” Daario asked, when he realised he had a tail. Whitewash was never more than a few feet to his right, staggering along, awkward on the solid ground with his oversized frame and offensively pale hair.

“Volunteered,” Whitewash replied.

In reality, they had been sent to retrieve the marauding groups of men that refused to return to the ships. They picked off the stragglers raiding houses near the wharves – roughing them up and tossing them into the main thorough-fair. They scampered toward the fleet in the harbour, rustling with gold. It rained from their pockets into the streets, paving it with gold.

“Where the hell are the rest of them?” Daario asked, as they kicked another door in. The wooden panel folded onto the floor, revealing the innards of the house. It was empty, accompanied by the foul stench of decayed food left out on the tables. Abandoned wine glasses stained the air with the sickly wreak of fermentation while several candles had burned small patches out of the wood before dying in a crater of charcoal. It was like wandering through one of the freezes on the palace wall. _Yin_ had simply _frozen_.

“The wealthy houses are higher up the Emperor's Road,” Whitewash pointed to the natural slope of the city. _Yin_ was built into the gentle curve of the otherwise violent cliffs. The cheap houses melded with the fish markets at water level while the terraced houses of the rich lurked along the edges of the cliff. Some had burrowed straight through the rock where it was cool in the Summer months. Others peaked over the top of the cliff, overlooking the desert and ocean alike. All had fabulous sprigs of flowering trees embedded between the buildings like gemstones. They'd die in this cold. Beyond this veil of ocean cliffs were the famous _Jade Gates of Yin_ that divided the restless sands from the civilised world. They were huge, constructed in a V-shaped gap in the rock. It was the only route into the city by land, keeping it unconquered for the entirety of living memory. It was said that the gods themselves had fashioned the stone with magic. Legend and truth were the same thing here, it seemed.

Daario viewed the climb with despair, appreciating none of its splendour. It took them hours to scale the paths and longer still to climb the infinite stone steps, curling around awkward streets in what felt like endless torment. Daario paused at a gap between crumbling buildings to view the harbour and the fleet of pirate ships far below. The snow was the worst of it. It melted and began forming awkward rivers that ate into their boots. “Are we nearly there?”

“See for yourself,” Whitewash replied, pointing to the road ahead. The immense villas had come to an end leaving a lone service road and the last rise of cliff before the gaping mouth of stone. _Yin_ was accessed by this tunnel that some described as 'the throat of the dragon. Rock became sand, darkness gave way to sun and suddenly they were standing in a thin strap of land between the cliffs and the desert beyond. They may as well have been standing on the surface of the sun for what lay beyond was hell brought to the realms of man.

“Fucking snow... Nice gates though,” Daario whistled appreciatively at the Jade Gates. Odd that they were ajar... Whitewash thought so too and moved closer. They must have been thirty-foot high and deceptive in their beauty. Each edge of the intricate Jade designs had been sharpened and laced with the sharp smelling _Tears of Lys_. “I'm no expert on civilisation security,” he wandered over to join the pirate, “but shouldn't those be locked or something?”

“Perhaps the raiders opened them.”

“We're the raiders,” Daario reminded him. “And for what purpose? There's nothing but fucking sand that way,” he scoffed. There wasn't any way to lock them either. Those mechanisms were missing. “No. These weren't opened by lazy, roaming pirate scum.”

“Where are the men, then?”

That was a point. “We must have missed them. It's a bloody big city. We should head back or our high mistress of the seas will think of some tiresome thing for us to do for her amusement.”

“You're itching to sail to Westeros.”

“Maybe.”

This didn't sit well with Whitewash. He kept going back to the unlocked gates then casting his eyes up to the cliffs that guarded them. A stray crow screeched, unseen in the wall. Black eyes were always watching – the birds of the world. Those little bastards took their secrets to spiders like Varys, whispering in the ears of kings. “There's sumthin' out there,” Whitewash said, pointing his sword at the sand.

Daario sighed heavily and moved a few paces towards the gate. It was hard to get a gauge of anything through the glare of the desert and flurry of unnatural snowfall. “A shadow from the storm cloud,” he replied, motioning to the sky where the unnaturally blue clouds rumbled away, dropping snow. “Where in seven hells are you going?” Daario stepped aside as Whitewash dropped his sword and started to climb the cliff beside the gate. Daario lingered on the weapon in the sand but did not approach. There were grooves in the rock above, allowing Whitewash to scale it like some morbid, albino cave bat. Daario didn't like anything about _Yin_ – he wanted to get out of it as soon as possible. It had a weird aura swirling around, like one of his nursemaid's curses. Filthy whispers on the air. He was a realist. Conflict was an opportunity that he had no intention of missing.

Whitewash pushed off the cliff and landed heavily on the sand, knocking Daario's shoulder along the way. Daario cursed at him but Whitewash took his weapon, brandishing it at the gates. “They're coming!” he growled, stabbing at the poisoned Jade. The gates swung pathetically, entirely ornamental without their locks.

“Who is coming?”

Whitewash offered the same reply as he had done in the palace. “Demons.”

A fierce wind stirred, kicking grit into their faces – roaring over the cliffs.

*~*~*

Several hundred of them crawled out of the desert, drawn to the noise in the city. It was as if they could feel the presence of the pirates – their warmth and life – trickling through the streets like a pulse. It was enough to tempt them from the safety of the sand. They were refugees of the _Grey Waste_. Murders. Cannibals. Half-breed creatures touched by ice. If they were in Yin then the barrier North had fallen.

They moved fast, like the cold wind before a storm, throwing themselves toward the city. They were starving, after the flesh to take back to the convoy which roamed the desert, amassing a bloodthirsty nightmare.

Whitewash grabbed Daario by the arm and pulled him along as they headed for the tunnel. At speed it was slippery and difficult to tackle. They both fell as they hit fresh ice and skidded ten feet until they landed on the fringes of _Yin's_ villas, sliding on their asses and finishing in a tangled mess. The ships in the bay were moving, beginning an arrangement to leave in convoy. Some had already broken the boundaries of the harbour and brushed the edge of the ocean currents, releasing their immense sails which flapped loosely. They had a good wind for it.

“How long before those things reach the city?” Daario asked, picking himself out of the stone road. His back killed from a few well placed cobblestones.

“Fifteen minutes. Maybe. I think they've been coming our way for a while. Look...”

The missing raiding party was dawdling in front of a villa to their right. Daario whistled at the pirates and was met with various 'bugger off' body language. They were smoking herbs and bickering over their haul like common thieves. “Bloody perfect...” Daario went to go for them when Whitewash held him back and shook his head gravely.

“No time for them.”

“They're your mates...”

“Pirates don't have the same code as common sailors – which you know very well...”

_Clink_ .

They both stopped arguing and turned toward the tunnel at their backs. It had come from beyond. The unmistakeable sound of a gate opening. Daario felt his heart erupt into his throat, pulsing against his breath, making it choke. “You said fifteen minutes.”

“I was wrong.”

_Very fucking wrong_ , Daario cursed, as the pair of them abandoned the road and vaulted through the terraced gardens instead. They were headed for the palace, perched on the cusp of the cliff like an eagle nest. It was the fastest way to the water if only they could reach it.  _Screams_ . The bickering pirates had been interrupted by whatever had come through the desert gates. Neither of them braved a look behind to see what caused the brief scuffle. They didn't want to know. All they could do was flee. Daario had seen enough crazy shit on the side of the world to understand that running was always the best option.

Whitewash was ahead – advantaged by his extraordinary height. He slid down walls and bounced off the rock, pushing himself into the next leap. When the screaming stopped it was replaced by something akin to wind. It took Daario a moment to realise that it was the sound of bare feet scampering over stone.

“Up here – up here...” Whitewash whispered, trying not to draw any attention to their escape. He'd clambered up one of the outer palace walls and turned around, offering his arm to Daario. The sell-sword took it and found himself lifted straight over with alarming strength. It was only then that he saw what pursued them.

“Fuck – fuck, _oh fuck_...” Daario spun on his knees and forced himself away from the sight. He focused on the lay of the palace ahead. The doors on this side were locked but there should be an outside stairway to the sea somewhere on the -

They stopped dead.

The stone balcony that ran around the edge of the palace – with the sea on one side and the golden stone on the other – terminated in several blue-eyed savages, twitching and sneering in front of them. They carried crude weapons, dripping blood and bits of pirate skin.

“Bugger!” Whitewash thought of backtracking only to find a fourth demon sneaking up behind them. In the daylight he realised that they were not monsters but deformed humans, twisted and strengthened from living generations of existence at the edge of the world.

Whitewash lashed out first, swinging at the nearest creature. It was fast, dodging his blade as another of them ducked and rushed forward only to be kicked away. They fought like dogs, nipping at their heels. Daario had no sword at all. He looked around in a panic but there was only rock and palace wall. Nothing to latch onto. The creatures were sizing him up but in a moment they'd strike. Daario raised his fists at the creatures. They swayed against each other, muttering in something that might have once resembled speech. The largest was missing most of his arm. The limb hung in tatters with bits of sinew poorly tied together. It was inevitably turning for the worse – so that's where Daario aimed his first punch. He hit his mark but the smaller one on the other side lunged and caught hold of his shirt. It pulled Daario toward itself, gnashing its remaining teeth a breath from his skin. Daario looked into those cold, dead eyes.

“Let. Me. Go!” Daario kicked it away and finished the job with a back hand. The force flung the squealing thing at the stone wall where its skull collided with the rock and it fell, dead. That gave the others pause.

Whitewash upstaged him, cutting one of his attackers in two leaving a twitching corpse and ocean of blood at their feet.

Ocean.

Daario glanced over the waist-high wall.  _Maybe_ . “Oy!” he shouted at Whitewash, then nodded at the drop.

“Kidding...” Whitewash hissed back, taking another swipe at the remaining creatures. “The – what are you?”

In a moment Daario had scaled the wall and run along its edge. Beneath him was sea air and a harbour full of half destroyed ships. With any luck he wouldn't impale on any of them on the way down. “We can't fight our way out of this one,” Daario insisted. He was right too, as Whitewash slay the last cannibal on the balcony, a dozen more caught onto their scent and started crawling over the palace walls toward them. There was no way that they'd be able to fight their way through.

Whitewash swore sharply and tucked his sword into the holster on his back. “You better be right about this, crazy motherfucker!” he said, looking at the sheer enormity of the drop below.

“I'm never sure about anything,” Daario replied – then launched himself at the abyss.

Salt. Snow. That's all he felt. Daario closed his eyes and listened to the still of the world. He was sure that in the next moment he would die. He was certain of it but he'd rather  _this_ . It was elegant and ended in the sea where the gods of his ancestors would take him in.  _What's dead may never die,_ he repeated his words, whispering them until they became a song, lost to the winds. He'd live on in the waves. The water approached. He could feel it rushing up to meet him. That first brush of -

###  **MILKGLASS SANDS - ULTHOS**

Danny stirred.

“Dreaming again?” Jorah asked softly.

The sun beat down relentlessly, piercing through the pathetic tent they'd made of his shirt and a few broken spear shafts they'd found in the sand. It afforded them a small patch of shade but no relief from the desert which did its best to roast their flesh. Jorah weathered most of it. The exposed skin on his arms had already turned an alarming shade of red and begun to peel away in patches. They had no water – only the distant promise of _Asshai_ which had grown closer during the night. The ground was the worst part. Black beneath with a fine layer of grey sand, it drank all the heat and radiated it out onto their fragile flesh. Jorah was almost praying for the Long Night.

“The same dream,” Daenerys replied. “He's laying in a bed of tentacles. They wrap around his limbs, encasing him until there is only the sea.” She hesitated. “Is he dead?”

“I'm not that lucky,” Jorah assured his queen.

“It's always the sea. He looks at me from beyond the water. So lost...”

“Daario is with the _Dothraki_ ,” Jorah assured her. “The one place he won't be is the sea, my queen. Daario is smart. He's valuable to them as a sell-sword. He'll find a way to one of the free cities, I am sure of it. Before this war is done, you will see him again.” If only for the gods to have one more go at vexing him before he died.

It was too hot to move. “This reminds me of the _Red Waste_ ,” she said, closing her eyes. She lived for the faintest touch of breeze.

“I preferred it,” Jorah replied. There wasn't much to like about this place, especially the pools of sulphur which had become more common the closer they drew to _Asshai's_ mountains. His queen's pale skin was turning brown in the sun. If anything, it made her silver hair stand out.

“Aren't you going to mention it?” she finally added, drifting somewhere near sleep.

“I know... I saw them too.” The desert sands were littered with bleached dragon bones, thousands upon thousands, many of them from tiny animals. It was a graveyard. “They seem to be old. I don't think there are any dragons here now save for yours.”

“None that are awake,” she pointed out. “How old are you?”

Jorah nearly choked on the heat. “Old enough.”

“Younger than you pretend,” she countered. “Tyrion said -”

“The gift that keeps on giving.”

“-that Northern men have a way about them. You can read the troubles of the world between one eyebrow and the next.”

“If I ever bring you another Lannister head, it's arriving in a box.”

“Fair enough – but not his...” Dany opened her eyes long enough to make sure Jorah swore not to kill Tyrion. “You dislike him and I would argue it's your own fault for finding him.” Jorah couldn't fault her there. “But he does have an unparalleled knowledge of _Westeros_. I cannot burn all the old houses to the ground when I arrive. If I arrive...” she added, remembering that she was probably knocking softly at death's door.

“There is one thing for certain, your Grace,” he replied. “The Lannisters will have to burn if you intend to rule. They will not give up their crown, certainly not to a dragon. Not in a thousand years. It remains to be seen if your pet lion has the nerve to murder the last of his name.”

“He hates his sister.”

“Oh indeed but he loves his brother.”

“The Kingslayer – who murdered my father. He'll be the first to die.”

Jorah eyed his queen questioningly. She'd have to temper that fury once the wars were done. “Yes, my queen – he must die. Not by your hand.”

“By _only_ my hand. He'll die, screaming in the flames. He is the reason I lost everything.” That wasn't true and even as she said it, Dany knew that it had taken more than one sword to fell an empire. She turned her head to the side and let her hand lightly fall onto Jorah's chest. He opened his eyes, waiting for her to speak. “Tell me again,” she continued softly, “am I very like my father?”

“No, your Grace,” Jorah assured her. “You resemble your brother Rhaegar. By all accounts he was a fair, honourable prince – well liked by his subjects.” And too beautiful, Jorah thought. That had been the crack in his armour. Beauty commanded love. That always led to trouble. “He had your eyes and silver hair,” Jorah added, “and like you, felt keenly the pain of blood spilled in the past. Ser Barristan Selmy used to speak of you as his twin, now, gods permitting, you shall rule the seven kingdoms in his stead, as is your birth right.”

“And yet he raped that Stark girl and started a war that tore apart the realm.”

Jorah was quiet. “So they say.”

“You think otherwise?”

“Something my father said once,” Jorah replied. “He spent some time travelling with Ned Stark, rounding up Wildlings in the farthest reaches of the realm. It was not long after that terrible business with the Martell girl. He'd brought a bastard back with him. My father carried the babe for many days across the snows while Stark rallied the bannermen. He said that there was something about the child...”

“What – he wasn't a Stark?”

“No, he was a Stark all right. It was his eyes. My father said that they were mirror of the prince.”

Dany sat up and cast a shadow over Jorah. “What became of the child?” she pressed.

“That's the strange thing,” Jorah propped himself up onto one elbow. His skin was burning from the heat but it was nothing compared to the fire in his queen's eyes. “As a bastard of the North – with _Winterfell_ in ruins, he was sent to the _Wall_ – to be trained by my father. Last I heard, the Stark bastard was the new Lord Commander, after my father. Little shit got my sword.”

Her lip curled at his frustration. “And what do you think happened – do not lie or I shall know.”

“He wasn't the type to run away with an unwilling girl. The whispers of the North are that they ran _together_ , defied the Baratheon king and were killed for it. If that is true, your war is not with the North. That bastard Snow may very well be your nephew.” And heir to the throne of _Westeros –_ or would have been if it were not for taking the _black_. “In any case, we will know if we see him. Dragons are hard to miss, if you know what to look for. We bears have a nose for it.”

“The Wall is a long way from here,” she lamented, laying back on the sand.

“Indeed it is, my queen.”

_Asshai_ felt even further. Together, they waited until the cool air of dusk whipped up idle whirlwinds, tracking over the barren landscape. The sunlight turned them pink. Jorah stood, untangling his shirt from the skeleton of their tent. Silently, they started again, trudging toward the shallow, stagnate water that lay at the feet of the black mountains.

###  **WINTERFELL – THE NORTH**

“Don't. Move.” Brienne's eyes never left the shivering skin of the dragon's snout. It was sucking in the air from around them, creating a wind that pulsed – in and out – in and out, with every breath.

The dragon was waking up. Every now and then the breathing stopped and for a few tense minutes, all was silent.

“I ain't never seen a dragon,” Podrick whispered.

“No one's seen a dragon, you idiot,” Brienne hissed. “Dragons are extinct.”

“Really...” Because Podrick was pretty certain that he was staring straight at a distinctly non-extinct dragon.

“Are we really going to have this discussion here?! Sansa...” Sansa slipped by Brienne and approached the cracked wall. “Come back!”

Sansa was not afraid. She stepped around the frantically boiling pool of water and stood in front of the dragon's exposed snout. Its skin was not made of scales like a fish but leathery, with a strange, bulbous pattern pressed into the flesh. It was white, like the snow, with delicate hints of blue veins running beneath. It was almost as if it were made of ice. There were ice dragons in Old Nan's stories but this was not one of them. For a start, the ground around the dragon burned hot. It was the reason the ice was melting in _Winterfell_. It was probably the reason that the castle had always remained warm, no matter how dark the night. She wondered if it had always slept beneath _Winterfell_.

“We should wake it up...” Sansa whispered.

“Are you mad?” Brienne hissed back.

“Trust me.”

Even Theon had gone pale. “Sansa – please. I know you want revenge but a dragon will burn _Winterfell_ to the ground.”

“The Boltons with it...” she replied darkly, then pulled part of the wall down, revealing a huge, bright blue eye. The dragon was already awake.

 


	27. Sword in the Sea

 

###  **WINTERFELL – THE NORTH**

The eye was old. Sansa found herself in the reflection, shimmering over the black pit of _Silverwing's_ pupil. It went on forever, straight into the depths of the world. A chasm looking back at her with an ancient intelligence, terrible and hungry having weathered the centuries in silence. Ice-blue bled out from the edges, flirting with silver and pink to form a halo around the void. The dragon blinked and instantly that black sphere became a slit. The ground vibrated underfoot. Loose rubble danced. The water boiled vigorously, about to catch fire. The dragon was staring at _her_. Watching or waiting. The last human it witnessed stood amidst the smoke on the smouldering fields of battle, blade dripping in the frost, her mate dying with the light with a mournful song.

“Sansa, back away slowly,” Brienne whispered, holding out her hand. It shook like the building surrounding them. Brienne was all too aware of the weight of rock and castle on their heads. They weren't the only ones that could feel the dragon awakening. Above, the Bolton's party had paused. “Come on, please...”

Sansa retreated, one step at a time – watching as cracks worked their way across the wall, growing out of each other until everything began to crumble, smashing onto the floor at her feet. The entire wall of the crypt came apart. A moment later her hand found Brienne's and together they fled into the tunnels. As soon as they were out of the dragon's sight they turned and _ran_.

The ground shifted violently, throwing them to the floor with a disturbing groan of rock. Podrick squeaked as he hit a wall and felt the warm slide of blood over his face. It was in his eyes – through his mouth. He was picked up by the knight and tossed onto his feet – forced with a shove into the first glimmer of moonlight. Parts of the tunnel collapsed onto them. Seconds behind it had begun folding inwards. The sound was so intense, Theon imagined he was drowning and that the walls were waves rearing onto an icy shore. There was no time. All of _Winterfell_ was coming down.

Four bodies threw themselves onto the fresh snow near the wood. Sansa was the first to roll over and scramble up the small rise between the pines. She gripped one of their narrow girths as she looked down at the ancient stronghold of _Winterfell_. It was lit by moonlight, alone on a plane of ice. For a moment it was serene, like something she'd seen in her dreams. As long as she lived, she'd remember those walls. They were a perfect memory of _home_.

Then they were gone.

The ground broke apart beneath the castle, crumbling inwards long enough for the main turrets to tilt dangerously past the point of no return, then collapse into the square with a roar. Fires sprung up through the dust, ripping into the reserves of hay, quickly spreading across the building, crawling up the walls as though it were alive. Then the foundations _erupted_ , forced upwards by the creature making its way out of the heart of _Winterfell_. Bricks, iron and bodies were tossed into the air, arcing as gravity snatched them back and into graves of snow.

A dragon, half the size of the castle, crawled out of the earth. It felt the moonlight on its pale skin and turned, casting an orange set of eyes toward the floating orb of light. The creature unfurled its wings, brushing the horned tips against the collapsing buildings – knocking over the last tower where Sansa had spent the worst months of her life. It opened its mouth, allowing any lingering, terrified Boltons to see the three rows of curved, serrated teeth that lined both jaws. Then it started to sing at the moon.

Podrick, Theon and Brienne joined Sansa in the snow, staring in bewilderment at the dragon inside _Winterfell_. It was majestic and transfixing. None of them moved as the dragon turned on the few foolish Boltons that tried to attack it. She snapped her jaws then took a deep breath of the freezing air. It rushed back out her throat aflame. She lit up the night, covering the buildings in rivers of green fire, so hot that it made the stones drip onto the snow.

When the dragon was done, her huge wings lifted her body from the smouldering ruins. She took to the air and flew toward the snow-capped mountains in the North, heading for the _Wall_ and the lands beyond.

###  **THE SUMMER SEA**

The queen's boat listed sharply. A storm of claws and leather wings lashed against the network of masts. Its crew shrieked, scampering like mice to the edges of the deck, cowering under life boats and whatever bits of cloth they could grab at. It was night, pitch and without stars. Instead of a storm this demon creature was tearing their ship to pieces.

In reality, a dragon was trying to make a difficult landing on the ship's bow. The vessel moved on the waves, rocking with the swell with a confusing array of lamps tied to its masts. _Rhaegal_ , having been momentarily tangled in the rigging, frantically flapped his wings and drew back, tilting his long head so that a stunning set of golden eyes could get a better look at the awkward floating land.

Drawn on deck by the commotion, Tyrion emerged, half draped in a robe and carrying a lantern. Its flame struggled in the gasp of wind from the dragon's wings. Their unexpected guest was difficult to make out in the moonless night but it was one of the queen's creatures all right. Tyrion squinted, crossing the deck and holding his lantern up to the dragon circling above.

“ _Rhaegal!_ ” He called out to the thing. “Come down from there, you crazy beast!”

The creature tried to obey. This time it swooped around the boat a few times, inching lower with each pass, almost as if it was trying to get a better lay of the vessel. Tyrion watched as it flew right by the railing, clipping the waves. He felt the rush of air that accompanied it and heard the soft, chirping sounds that it made while it flew. It was like a bird – an oversized creature of prey with the flight skills of a chicken... Gods he hoped that improved.

“Everybody stay down!” Tyrion ordered the crew hiding on deck. “It's trying to land – very poorly.”

This time _Rhaegal's_ feet touched the deck first. Bravely, it folded its wings up and managed to stop before impacting the cabin area. It was a tight fit but then again, the dragons were growing fast and soon they wouldn't be able to land on the boats at all. The whole ship tilted forward with the full weight of the dragon. Its sails stretched and the boat slowed in comparison to the rest of the fleet. Grey Worm leaned over the side of an accompanying vessel. Tyrion waved calmly back.

“There you are,” Tyrion cooed at the dragon, approaching carefully. He'd had cats once when he was small and decided to address the queen's dragon with the same care. It was always a gamble with dragons. Unless you claimed to be their mother, there was always a good chance they might fancy you for a snack and Tyrion was keenly aware that he was bite sized.

Varys materialised beside him. Like his arachnid namesake, the man had a habit of it. He was holding a lantern with hands covered in ink stains. “One dragon is better than none,” he whispered. “What is that old rubbish on its back?”

Tyrion tilted and edged in. The dragon had its head down, licking salt off its paws. It was panting from the long flight. “They look like bags.”

“Well, it certainly didn't put those there itself. Someone give us a hand.” It was an open question to the deck – that was ignored by everybody on board.

Tyrion felt Varys' eyes upon him. “You don't think I should...” Tyrion gestured at the dragon.

“It does seem warmer towards you.”

“In the sense that I'd make a good barbecue, perhaps!” Though _Rhaegal_ was the most sensible of the three and in all the time that Tyrion had known the creature, it seemed good natured enough around humans. Well, with the exception of Grey Worm. All of the dragons had attempted to eat the poor man at one time or another. Varys told him to take it as a compliment. Grey Worm didn't. “There are worse ways to go,” Tyrion muttered, agreeing. He gave his lamp to Varys to hold before approaching the preening dragon. “There's a good boy,” Tyrion whispered soothingly. “Now – what have you got there, ay? Gifts from the queen?”

The dragon was watching the dwarf with a sharp set of slitted eyes but so far made no move to snap at him. Tyrion could hear _Rhaegal's_ black claws scratching against the wooden deck leaving terrible, splintered wood behind. It was probably starving from the flight so Tyrion dragged a bucket of fish over to it. The dragon sniffed the contents and knocked it over with his snout. He licked at the fish, contented.

Tyrion took the opportunity to climb up onto the dragon's back leg and cut free the leather straps tied around the spines on its back. The bags fell to the ground with an unusual _crunch_. A few brave _Dothraki_ warrior moved over to help drag the bags to a safe distance as Tyrion did the same on the other side.

Varys inspected the contents, holding a sharp object up to the light of his lantern. “Obsidian...” he said. “What on Earth are those two playing at?”

“I don't know,” Tyrion replied, sawing loose the last bag. “At least we know that they're alive. That's more than we hoped for yesterday.”

Varys rolled the black glass around in his hands. It was nasty, cutting through his flesh. Still, these weapons were no good against the war they'd face in _King's Landing._

Tyrion paused, standing in front of the great beast as it practically inhaled the fish offering. “Well done,” he praised the dragon, making sure to rub its snout as he'd seen the queen and Jorah do many times. It purred oddly beneath his touch and for a moment Tyrion was amazed that he was actually petting a dragon. He'd been brought up to fear the memory of these things, paraded by the skulls under the castle but in reality they were only animals – wild creatures at the bidding of their masters.

“One does not simply leave a dragon on deck...” Varys said, as the dragon finished with the fish and tucked its nose under its paw to sleep. Its wings were folded neatly up and its arresting, golden eyes closed.

“One does what one must, besides, what do you propose I do with it instead?” Tyrion replied. “It's a dragon, not a dog. Just be grateful it's not picking off the crew or sharpening its talons on the mast.”

Varys' invisible eyebrows created creases in his forehead that Tyrion had long ago learned to read as, 'resignation'. They had the leather satchels dragged below deck where he, Varys and several Unsullied picked through each bag. It was full of dragonglass – arrow heads, daggers and spears. All of which was coarsely made.

“These are old,” Varys observed. He was making an inventory, scribbling in the candlelight. “If I didn't know better I'd say-”

“What...?” Tyrion was forced to prompt him, when Varys paused.

“Only that...”

Tyrion switched to High Valyrian, which the _Dothraki_ helping sort the bags could not understand. “I know.” He agreed. “They have the of artefacts brought back from the _Wall_ , kept in _Old Town._ Made by the _Children of the Forest_.”

“Those are only stories...” Varys replied in kind, with a crisper accent.

“Like dragons and armies of the undead?”

Varys gave a curt nod in reply, tossing aside another arrowhead. “I see your point.”

Tyrion took a heavy sip of the wine casket that had appeared beside him. “Most do in the end but why was it strapped to _Rhaegal_?”

“Mormont and Queen Daenerys must have found it – wherever they are. We may have only seen weapons like these from the North but obsidian is scattered all over the world – especially _Essos_. It's not impossible that other cultures like those friendly people we met earlier have similar weapons. They could have been a gift. Daenerys has a way of procuring favours.”

Tyrion was nursing some particularly nasty scars from those forest natives and he seriously doubted that anyone on this side of the world had time for gift-giving. Life was too harsh. Besides, the Brindled men had a city built from of a sickly imitation of the stone. “Humour me,” Tyrion passed more objects to Varys so that he could add to the register. He shifted his attention to the bags. Leather wasn't meant to turn that colour. He had a sinking feeling these were _thousands_ of years old. “What does one use obsidian weapons for?”

“You know very well,” Varys replied. “I suspect you simply want me to confirm your suspicions.”

“And?” Varys nodded at the dwarf. Tyrion decided that he was going to need a lot more wine tonight. “Why does it feel like we're sailing toward the wrong war?”

“Have you ever sailed toward a war you fancied?”

Tyrion rolled his eyes at the spider. “Obviously _no_. That is not what I meant. Dragons are all well and good for burning cities to the ground but when our queen is done breaking the wheel and freeing _Westeros_ from the tyranny of the old houses, her dragons will become a problem. They are her children. I don't see her locking them up for a second time beneath _King's Landing_.”

Varys continued counting the dragonglass artefacts, diligently adding each one to his page until it was full and he was forced to start another. His crows tried to sleep in their cages around the room. Their feathers rustled softly at the stroke of Varys' quill, as though expecting to be summoned. The more Tyrion watched Varys handle the weapons, the more certain he became of one the simple fact. _Varys was not all that he appeared._

“What is it that you want, Varys?” Tyrion returned to the common tongue, playing with one of the dragonglass arrowheads. He pressed the sharp tip against his thumb and let the blunt base spin on the table. Around and around. Burrowing through the wood. Kicking up splinters until Varys could stand the disturbance no more. The spider reached across the table and snatched it away.

“Please, do not do that.”

“Do what? Ask questions or tempt fate?”

“Both.” Varys replied, adding the item to his list.

“Who do you write to?” Tryion continued, now eyeing the black ink marks that always stained the other man's fingers. Never, in all the days that he had known Varys, had he seen him with clean hands. “All the days and nights that you spend with your birds... Where do your whispers go?”

“The realm,” Varys shifted uncomfortably. Tyrion's gaze was sharp in the lamp light. The dwarf had not had his usual fill of wine.

“The realm. Of course. Always the realm. The realm is vast, it has many kings.”

“And several queens,” Varys interrupted, without looking away from his list. “Our Grace must know them all if she is to conquer _Westeros_ as her ancestors did. Circumstance is shifting beneath our feet. The board is tilting and the tide waits for no one.”

“Did one of your strings break? Is that what has your nose on edge?”

“Perhaps but do not fear, young lion, I shall spin another. Best not worry your regal head mane over it.”

“You know, I've seen it.”

Varys looked up at his company. The lamps flickered. On deck, the dragon shifted and the boat lurched oddly. “Seen _what_?”

“The Wall,” Tyrion replied. “In all it's bland glory. It's – difficult to grasp. Abstract. If one cannot appreciate the Wall when standing at its edge, how can a realm perceive the terror that lays beyond it? I know that some of your little birds fly into the snow. I've heard many of the whispers that they bring back. My father used to go through your scraps of parchment-”

Varys shifted uncomfortably. He had not known that about the late Tywin Lannister.

“-some of them he chose to share – mostly out of amusement. You see, my father didn't care much for the North. 'Superstitious half-breeds', he used to call them. I'm not sure if he was referring to the Wildling or First Men blood that runs through their veins, perhaps both. _Winter is coming_ , he used to mock. _Wish it would fucking hurry up_ , he'd add. If it weren't for Robert's friendship with Ned Stark, my father might have slaughtered the old houses in the snow as sport.”

 _He has his father's eyes_ , Varys thought, while Tyrion spoke.

“Good thing he didn't,” Tyrion continued. “I met those same Northerns, stood under their sacred tree and felt the chill in the air. When you stand at the foot of that bloody great wall it is impossible to deny the truth.”

“What truth?” Varys finally spoke.

“That it is real.”

“Every fool knows that the Wall is real.”

“That it was built for a purpose. If the Wall is real, then so are the creatures it was built to keep out. _Winter is coming for us all_ ,” Tyrion whispered. “Mormont knows it. I saw it in his eyes. He's the one that sent us this present, I'd lay my life on it, for what it's worth.”

“Not very much at the present, I'm afraid...” Varys quipped cruelly.

Tyrion laughed and re-commenced his relationship with the wine. He was no fool. Varys knew it too.

###  **MILKGLASS SANDS – ULTHOS**

“It's getting worse...”

Jorah grimaced in reply. _Yes, it was_ but there wasn't anything to be done about it. The lower half of his leg ached but he couldn't bring himself to peel the bandages off. Priorities. At the moment, there was only a very small chance that either of them would make it across the desert and over the mountains to _Asshai._ If they survived the trip, then and only then would he worry about the leg. “Do not trouble yourself, your Grace. I am well enough.”

She didn't believe a word of it and told him so with a look.

It had been dark for many hours and the temperature dropped to a very bearable cold. Jorah's burned skin dried out and stretched, adding a new agony that very nearly took his mind off the debilitating hunger. There was a carpet of infant dragon bones at their feet. His queen could not look at them. Her eyes were fixed on the red streak in the evening sky. It was as though someone had taken a sword and sliced through the heavens, leaving it to bleed.

They travelled fast. The black ranges, walling in _Asshai,_ cast a shadow nearby. Distant rumblings accompanied flares of light from their peaks. Fire trickled down some of their flanks, touching the edges of the shallow water where it hissed and froze into gruesome shapes.

“Ser?” Dany asked, when Jorah halted her progress with a hand in front of her waist.

There was give in the ground beneath them. Instead of dragonglass below the grey dust, he found mud. They were standing at the shallow see dividing _Ulthos_ from mainland _Essos._

“Can we cross it?” Dany whispered.

“Difficult to tell,” he replied, taking a few cautious steps closer. Stars reflected on the water. Five kilometres of shallow swamp lay ahead with reeds poking up from the water level all the way to the other side. There were deeper sections, where currents ran and he caught the beginnings of waves but if they stuck to the islands of vegetation they could probably cross it. “It's shallow but we've no way of knowing if it's silt, sand or rock below the water line. If it's silt we'll die here tonight.”

“It's narrower over there.” They traced the edge of the filthy swamp until they reached the neck. It was torment, being at the water's edge but unable to drink. Not only was it sticky with salt but it smelled of the worst corner of a fish market. It was as though the filth from all the oceans of the world had collected in this place and been left to rot. “Oh my god...” she withdrew her first step when she saw what truly lay beneath the water.

Jorah closed his eyes and turned away. “This isn't a sea,” he breathed. “It's a battlefield.”

“A graveyard,” she corrected, keeping her eyes on the endless ocean of sculls that lay between her and the mountains of _Asshai_. “Do not look away, ser,” she insisted. “The dead do not fear us.”

Daenerys pushed into the cool water, finding her footing amidst the skulls. Jorah remained on the shore for a moment, watching her. Every now and then the veil was lifted and he saw Daenerys for what she was – a creature of myth. They would write songs about the dragon queen but those whispered words would never serve justice to the visions that he saw – to the picture of a young woman striding over death as though it were her plaything. His vision blurred and Jorah felt the poison in his body bite. Daenerys turned, beckoning him to follow. He watched her ragged clothes melt away with blood and the waters take her under...

Jorah pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Daenerys was still waving, unharmed. He gritted his teeth and braved the water. Whatever fray had transpired it was long ago. The bones crunched under his boots. Their fragments washed together with hundreds more obsidian weapons.

“How many?” Daenerys asked. She'd taken his hand and they now concentrated on moving from island to island, following the shallowest parts.

“A hundred thousand, at least,” he replied. “Larger than any army _Westeros_ has to offer.”

“Everything is larger in the East, including the quantity of blood spilled.”

“They say _Asshai_ is a dead city – all it's people vanished. Perhaps we have found them.”

Daenerys watched fire tumble from the black ranges in front. “The largest city in the world – in such a terrible place. It is not so different to _Valyria_.”

“I have been to _Valyria_ , your Grace. The forests have re-claimed what remains of the continent. Ruins peak from the jungles like violent cliffs. They are draped in natural finery while deep rivers cut their way under bridges that once vaulted fire. I assure you, _Valyria_ is beautiful.”

That made her smile.

“If we survive all that is to come,” he continued, “I will take you there.”

“I shall hold you to your word, ser.”

“I quite expect you to,” he assured her. “A knight's word is his honour.”

“And you, an honourable man.”

“My father was an honourable man,” Jorah replied. “He had more of it than was good for him. A little less honour and he might yet live.”

Daenerys often wondered how much of the old bear was in her knight. Even now, as Jorah waded through the water he had the look of a bear in the snow. He was no stoic hero though – that was plain. There was a wildness about Jorah that she had long assumed gifted by his mother. He never spoke of her. “Did your father tell many stories?” she asked instead.

“Some,” he replied, helping her onto another tuft of weed. They were used to the morbidity of their surrounds. “His stories were for the forests. The only ones I ever heard that weren't about the rabbit he caught last Tuesday were when I snuck out of the log house and crept through the snow after him. I'd find him at the top of the cliff, whispering to an old _Weirwood_ tree. My father's stories were not fit for the lips of men, you see, so he told them to the winds and those bloodthirsty leaves to stop himself turning mad.”

“And you – do you tell your stories to the gods?”

“Certainly not. The gods are fickle, your Grace. You can never be sure what they want. If you don't know what a thing wants it becomes impossible to predict.”

###  **YIN – YI TI**

The waves saved him.

Choppy water, broken by winds ripping into the harbour, fresh from the _Jade Sea,_ parted as his boots hit the water. Daario threw his arms above his head, stretching like an eel, letting the water suck him under. He slipped in without a sound, vanishing.

Whitewash screamed all three-hundred and twelve feet from the palace balcony to the surface of the harbour. He momentum resulted in an awkward tilt, leaving him to hit the water sideways. It may as well have been stone. His shoulder was pushed through the socket then the water grasped onto the sword lashed to his back and tore it off _along with part of his spine_. Both his legs broke. One of them ended up half way through his pelvis leaving a mangled corpse sinking to the bottom of the bay, weighed down by the iron on his back. The water turned brown as his blood mixed with the pulverised seaweed. A terrified eye remained open.

Daario found himself deep under the water, propelled further into the depths. His eyes were wide open as well, focusing on the light vanishing above. He knew the dangers of the sea. Countless sailors lost sight of the surface and instead of swimming toward air, they headed off into the infinite lands below the water, never to be seen again. Perhaps that's where the stories of underwater cities came from – places where drowned souls lived again. The undead of the storm god.

Not Daario. He decided that he was going to live. Eventually his motion stopped and he found himself floating in the dark, near the bottom of the harbour. There was sand below, white like the deserts above. He could make out the murky shadow of shipwrecks on all sides and the occasional tangle of weed surging out from the seabed, shivering like a creature.

A glint. Something covered in sand. Daario twisted in the water. A golden hilt lay a few metres away, embedded with grape-sized rubies. He'd never seen anything like it and Daario had held a good deal of swords in his time. With his lungs beginning to burn, he swam toward the sword, venturing deeper. He reached out, sending the sand into a storm that stung his eyes. Then he felt it – the cold touch of Valyrian steel.

His body started to convulse – desperately seeking air. Daario kicked off the bottom and tried to swim toward the light.

The great sword was too heavy.

Its weight dragged him back down, pinning him to the harbour floor. Daario could feel the gods of the sea laughing at him. Even now, the light felt so far away. It would be so easy to breathe the water, let it take him – lay himself to rest with the whispers of his ancestors. The silence of the water. The peace of the depths. Nothing died beneath the waves.

 


	28. Winter Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone leaving reviews. Thank you so much - we're over half way to the end and the new season has started. Where possible, things from the show will be written in so - spoilers - sort of. :)

 

###  **THE CITADEL – OLD TOWN**

A filthy, sickly crow lurched through the window, shedding rain onto the sill. It ruffled its bent feathers, sending a few spiralling to the floor and then shook its leg impatiently in the archmaester's direction. There was a delicate curl of parchment tied to the weathered limb, held fast with a tiny length of sinew. Sam watched as it was removed and the bird fed a scrap of bread which it bashed violently against the stone.

“Whispers...”

Marwyn paused at Sam's words but did not look up. They were in his office, surrounded by shelves and their alarming collection of mystical relics. Sam was made particularly uncomfortable by the shrunken heads from the far East, stuffed with dried flowers, serving as horrifying book ends. He'd had his fill of dead things.

“Varys,” Sam added. This time Marwyn met his gaze with a silent question. “I've seen my share of ravens. They were my charge at The Wall under Lord Commander Snow. Never much of a reader, gods rest him, so I read the realm's words for him. Varys uses parchment from the East but writes in the King's Standard ink. Unique.”

“You're all eyes,” Marwyn cast his attention over the scribbled text then let the flames have the message. It burned furiously in a small dish on the desk, vanishing in a hiss of smoke.

“I know what you're thinkin',” Sam continued, missing his watchman's cloak in the chill of the stone room. It was a wet cold in Old Town. Even as they sat in the relative luxury of Marwyn's office Sam could feel it eating into his bones. “But I didn't make them candles burn. I swear it.”

Marwyn only laughed, deeply amused by the crow as he hunted out a half-empty pitcher of wine. He poured himself a glass as he began to gasp and cough. Quietened, he smiled again with an unnerving row of crooked teeth. “I did not think anything of the sort – I assure you. Glass candles are magical items, young Tarly. You, I regret to say, well – I probably shouldn't say it after taking you as my charge...” As he finished, he clicked his fingers together, igniting a dry layer of flash powder. It caused a small gasp of flame to erupt between them with a _pop_ , stunning Sam.

“Any fool with half a crown can buy powder,” Sam recovered. “It was a favourite trick of my father's maester.”

“That was radical of him – maesters aren't fond of magic. It interferes with their ordered world. The candles, however, were no trick.”

“No,” Sam agreed.

“Do you know how long I have been waiting for them to ignite? _All my life._ ” There was something in the way he said those words to suggest that it was a longer life than he made out. “I used to spend weeks in the dark, whispering enchantments, bidding those god-awful obsidian sticks to respond. In _Asshai_ -”

“You've been to _Asshai_?” Sam scraped his chair closer with interest. “I – sorry...” he realised that he was interrupting. Marwyn ignored him.

“-they explained that the magic of the world is sleeping. It comes and goes in cycles. This is the Winter of magic. Tonight, you saw the first bud of Spring.”

“It was actually rather alarming,” Sam thought back to those flames. Three candles burning – one holding visions. Perhaps the other two were sleeping as well.

“Maester Tarly,” Marwyn insisted, “what did you see in the flames?”

“A silver woman – I think she saw me. Then cold, blue eyes.”

“And...”

“Ravens. There are always ravens.”

Marwyn drank again of the sickly liquid, draining his cup before assaulting the last of the pitcher. He offered Sam a plate of dried fruit but he shied away from it, afraid of poison. “You saw Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen in the East who thinks herself ruler of Westeros, despite all evidence to the contrary. She's the last surviving child of the mad king. Was she as beautiful as they say?”

Sam frowned and had to think about that, eventually nodding. “I – uh – guess. It was hard to tell. She seemed startled.”

“I've seen her too, long before she was born. Let's wager that our new queen has a flare of magic and touched a glass candle, waking it; the other set of eyes you saw would have been as surprised as you. We've all seen something we shouldn't have.” Marwyn got up and moved over to a narrow table covered in a black cloth. He slid the fabric off to reveal the three candles from the basement. “I've had them brought up here. They'll burn again and we must be careful what they see. Each one is a window that any one may look through. The Whitewalker that you saw in the flames is now aware of two people beyond the Wall, Daenerys Stormborn and your good self.”

“Me?”

“Yes, maester Tarly, _you_.”

###  **THE WALL – THE NORTH**

The crowd gasped and pressed back against one another, sheltering from the heavy smoke that sank as a dense wave once the flames and wolf vanished. It flowed over them, stained with soot and thick with the witch's whispers. It dissipated leaving the body of Jon Snow lying in the remains of the pyre. Unburned. Snow thickened in the air, falling on Jon's cheek where it _melted_ at his warmth.

Ser Davos was the first to move. He approached the body, blinking back snow caught in his lashes. At the centre of the pyre he knelt, placing his gloved hand on Jon's chest. It rose beneath him.

Jon Stark jolted to life, flailing wildly at the shock of re-entering the world of the living. _He'd been inside the wolf. Roamed the castle as a ghost. Howled at the night and the shadows under the moon. Danced with the flames._

“Easy!” Davos pressed him back toward the ground with soothing words.

The gathering was in shock. Lord Commander Thorne held his men back with a slight lift of his sword.

“You've had a bit of a turn, young Snow,” Davos continued, staring into the frightened eyes of the murdered Commander. _Odd_ , he thought. He could have sworn that those eyes had been dark like the secrets bastards kept, now they were an eerie blue – touched by the winter rose.

Jon sat up and slowly took in his surrounds. The remains of the fire beneath him. The mixture of Night's Watch and Wildlings. His old friends standing with the Red Priestess. “Where's my wolf?”

“Gone...” Davos replied quietly. “We burned your body – the wolf jumped into the flames and here we are, Lord Commander Snow.”

Jon shook his head. He reached for Davos' hand and struggled to his feet. His limbs felt like fire, prickling at the rush of renewed life.

“I am not the Lord Commander,” Jon insisted, announcing it for the entire camp to hear. His words were firm, harsh like his father's but measured. Death had brought him clarity. “I died. I was dead. The title passed to Lord Commander Thorne and no man may interfere with the sacred rules of the Night's Watch.”

Jon nodded at Thorne who, after a moment of resigned pause, dipped his head in kind.

“Death has released me from my vows. I am not the Snow that falls on the Wall. I am a _Stark_. My father's son. I will have justice for the North, for the families you left behind!”

Those men of the Night's Watch, mostly Northerns by blood, brandished their swords and shouted, _'Ay!'_ in support.

“Then the Northern armies will return to the Wall with the houses of old. Every sigil, I swear it. With the Night's Watch, we'll send the dead back to their graves.”

Thorne was no fool. While men and Wildling cheered, he looked straight at the Stark, born from the red witch's flames. He knew a king when he saw one. Jon Snow was ill suited to command of the watch but Jon Stark was born to lead an army of loyal soldiers. If he challenged Jon here, with these men, it would be _his_ body they threw onto the fire by nightfall. Instead, Commander Thorne took his sword and waded through the crowd. Davos tightened his grip on his weapon but Thorne simply shook his head. “Steady there, smuggler,” it was a concession from, 'pirate'.

The crowd fell under a hush.

“A man of the Night's Watch takes no King. Our honour is to The Watch and The Wall and the things we kill stirring in the shadows,” Thorne began, holding his sword flat in both hands as an offering and symbol of peace. His knee joint creaked as he sank toward the frozen ground. “I am not at liberty to pledge my sword,” and so it never touched the ice, “but I bid you head South with the grace of the old gods and the new. When you return to Castle Black and the war that we poor creatures must fight against the dead, be it as _King in the North,_ Jon Stark of Winterfell.”

_'The King in the North!'_ Someone shouted.  _'King in the North!'_ More echoed, until it became a chant.

The Red Woman approached with  _Longclaw_ . She held the heavy sword out to Jon. It dripped with wolf blood. The Red God always had his fill. Melisandre touched Jon's cheek. “Unusual eyes,” she whispered, then leaned in until her lips were against his ear.  _'No one returns from the darkness untouched.'_

Jon Stark took the sword from the witch. He strode through the crowd and climbed the scaffolding to a watch platform. Below, the survivors of _Hardhome_ and the traitors that drove their daggers into his body last night shouted together. _King in the North_ , Jon thought, _this is not the time of kings._

*~*~*

“Why do you stare, bastard boy?” Melisandre asked of the new Stark.

They were alone in a narrow room adjacent to the stables with ice creeping in under the door while the Wildlings and some of Jon's closest men prepared to leave for battle at Winterfell. Jon had shed his Night's Watch cloak, taking on fresh armour with an old-style Stark sigil, gifted to him by Thorne from the armouries. Nobody liked to look at him – if rising from the dead were not unnerving enough, there was something in his eyes. They were unnaturally clear and pale. Davos said it was the blood of the First Men coming through. They were all blue-eyed Northerns once with pale skin and a wash of dark hair. Jon worried that it might be something else.

“It's difficult not to,” Jon half apologised. Melisandre mistakenly thought his comment to be another misguided male compliment and smiled awkwardly. He killed those thoughts with, “I see you now without the veil.”

Her flesh went cold. Could he...?

“How does it work?”

“The better question is, _why doesn't it work on you_?” Melisandre replied, taking up a seat opposite him. “Glamouring,” she finally explained. “It's my talent. I make men see what they want and sometimes the red god lets me see things that I want in an exchange, hidden within the flames. Like you.”

“What was I doing in the flames?”

“You were alive. That was enough. Will you tell the others what you know of me?”

“Perhaps. Tell me this, how old are you?”

“Old enough to have seen empires fall.” It wouldn't suffice. The Stark boy could see through her magic and her lies. “I was a child when Aegon stepped onto Westeros and raised the dragon banner for the first time.”

Four-hundred years at least. He realised that she did not know exactly how old she was and in that moment Jon felt a kind of pity for the red woman. “We both know that I am no king. Whatever people choose to call me, I remain a bastard and bastards are without thrones under the law. Still, if I must pretend to be a king to raise an army and stop the dead, I will play-act. A bastard army – every soul that can hold a sword.”

“A mummer's king for the jeering crowd,” she nodded slowly. “We, both of us, hide our faces.”

“Keep each other's secrets...”

It was a question. “Keep each other's secrets,” she replied, making the candles flicker.

###  **THE CITADEL – OLD TOWN**

“You look like you seen a ghost,” Gilly helped Sam shed the ugly grey robes of the maesters. Her little boy was fussing quietly in the corner of the room. He wasn't happy unless he slept beneath the window – where it was coldest. A true child of the North.

“I sort of have,” Sam admitted, then shared the story of the dragonglass candles.

“I do not like this maester...” Gilly fussed near the fire. “People of magic always want something terrible.”

Sam nodded. “I agree. Remember why we're here...” he added, moving to the child at the window. Sam smiled at the tiny thing. It was incredible – born from depravity and here it was, pure as the first snow of winter. Such a happy creature.

“He's dead...” said Gilly of Jon Snow, stoking the fire. “Why don't we just go South – or East – or anywhere as long as it is far from the Wall? This isn't our war. You don't owe them anything.”

The edge of his lip curled up. That was 'freefolk-talk'. They were defiant beyond sense as Northerns were loyal. “I wish we could, Gilly, I do but when the winter comes there will be nowhere to run. Jon said it was the largest army in the world. If we don't hold the Wall, we're lost – North, South, East – it won't matter. Archmaester Marwyn knows more about magic than anybody in Westeros. He enjoys too much wine and indulges in theatrics. He's a man that likes an audience.”

“You think he'll brag...”

“He might. He doesn't know what we have.”

“ _We_ don't know what we have,” Gilly reminded him with an eyebrow that was arching its way toward the ceiling. “Just because you found that old thing beyond the Wall does not make it important. I lived my whole life beyond the Wall. There are ruins of old battles all over the place.”

“It was wrapped up in a Night's Watch cloak – with dragonglass. It had to have been left there for a reason. Someone wanted it to be found.”

“What good is an old horn? It doesn't even work.”

“This is the largest library in the world,” he said, holding up his hands to the city outside the window. The clouds thickened overhead. Rain hit the water beyond Hightower. Another fleet of ships sailed into the harbour, their sails catching a glimmer of sun making them shimmer like candles against the melodrama of the storm. “The answers are here. I made a promise, Gilly. That promise didn't die with Jon.”

###  **WESTWATCH BY THE BRIDGE – BAY OF ICE**

###  **264 AC**

It was ethereal – not quite part of the living world.

The wall of ice protruded from the flat sheets of snow which blanketed the far North in a jarring climax of blood magic. Jorah Mormont, a child of ten from a tiny island in a forgotten bay, stepped off his father's ship and onto the precarious landing of bare stone. Rough steps, coated in ice, trailed up the side of the gorge. The river, which had once been _The Bay of Ice_ , was forced between the opposing rock faces. It surged around the hull of his father's small fleet, testing the tethers that barely held them against their moorings. In front, unimpeded, the river rushed into the _Lands of Always Winter._ Jorah could see them to his left, a few dying pines, smothered by the cold clinging to the top of the cliff. Above, a narrow bridge joined the two lands hardly wide enough for one man to pass.

“Come on boy, help with the lanterns,” his father, a great bear of a man, passed him the light.

Their ships brought men for The Watch, delivering them to the closest outpost – _Westwatch by the Bridge_. He had begged his father to come. Jorah wanted to see the wall from his stories. Now that he had, he felt unnerved. It was not the infallible creation he had imagined. The first image he had of the Wall was its end at a small, abandoned outpost. Anyone could brave the rocks and wander South. _Or North_ , he realised.

“Don't stare at it too long,” Jeor Mormont said, when they reached the flat snow. The gorge on their left was a crack in the ground, less that fifty metres across. To their right, in the protected Northern lands, the Wall stretched lazily toward the horizon. The sun hit its surface, melting only enough to give it an eerie shine. There was another castle nearby, _The Shadow Tower_.

_Westwatch_ lay at the foot of the Wall, partially buried in its ice. It was black and green where the copper roofing had turned. The mark of ancient Stark builders had been left pressed into the gates while a fierce wind screeched through its hundreds of open windows.

“Maester Aemon...” Jeor greeted the silver haired man, waiting at the collapsed gates. There was a small party of Rangers with him, shivering in their black cloaks. _New to the North_ , Jeor guessed, for this was fair weather. “Qorgyle not with you?”

The aging Targaryen stepped off the stone and into the snow, his heavy maester chain  _clinking_ as he walked. “The Lord Commander is caught up with other matters,” Aemon apologised. “He has sent me here to collect the men on his behalf.” The old man's attention fell to the small boy half hidden by Mormont's cloak. “A cub?”

Jeor nodded, nudging his son forward. “Indeed. Soon to be a man. May I introduce Jorah Mormont. He wanted to see the Wall.”

“Is that right, young man... And what do you make of it?”

Jorah craned his head and stared at the Wall. They were close enough now that he could feel the cold coming off it. “Thought it'd be bigger.”

Despite themselves, nearly all the men laughed good naturedly at the boy. Aemon leaned down until his chain touched the snow. “I agree. Another hundred feet at least – to be safe.”

“What's over there?” Jorah pointed his paw at the gap where the Wall ended. He could see trees beyond.

“Another world,” the maester replied.

*~*~*

While his father settled the handover details with the maester, Jorah was left to wander the abandoned castle. He started by climbing the tower, pushing through the sparsely furnished rooms with discarded scrolls rolling over the floor until he emerged on a balcony looking North-West.

The river inside the gorge continued as far as he could see through the pine forest on the other side of the Wall. There were small trails of smoke rising in the distance from  _Wildling_ fires. Far West, over the gorge he found the familiar porcelain land that  _Bear Island_ looked over, only now its bleak shores were closer. The white mountains stretched in all directions, like low-lying cloud, a mirage between storm and frozen sea. Even a boy could see how easy it would be to skirt around the Wall and enter the strange land.

He decided to try one step beyond the Wall.

Jorah left the tower and slipped by the men in the square who were busy divvying up horses and food. The gates to the side were broken. Jorah ducked under them, crawling through the powder snow until he emerged at the foot of the Wall looking like a common savage. Parts of it had cleaved off and fallen over the ground in front. Huge chunks of brutal ice with edges sharp enough to cut a man in two, towered over the boy. He approached one. Above, wind savaged the Wall, trying to pry more of it away.

The gap between the Wall and the gorge was narrow and obstructed by fallen ice. It had build a fortress of is own, thirty feet high but littered with gaps large enough for a man to slip through. Jorah found one and, with a cautious glance to the creaking ice construction above his head, moved through.

He emerged beyond the Wall.

A forest reared up, almost touching it. The pines had frost several metres up their trunks and carried branches full of ice. A pack of skinny wolves hunted nearby, pushing their noses into the snow. He could smell wood-fire.

Half a day's ride to his right he saw the gate of the next outpost  _The Shadow Tower_ and a smear of black he assumed to be Rangers heading into the woods on patrol. It was not what he had expected. He'd not been struck down by some ice-magic the moment he stepped beyond the Wall. Instead it was – normal. Peaceful. It reminded him of his home.

Growing out of the nearest edge of the Wall, where it had splintered and dirt collected in the crevices, he found a nest of winter roses. Jorah brushed his fingers over their soft petals. So beautiful and fragile, thriving at the edge of the world. He picked one.

“Jorah!” His father's voice was a frantic whisper behind, as though he were too afraid to lift his voice. “Jorah – come back here!” Jeor Mormont struggled to fit through the gap in the ice blocks where his sword left them a scar. He raced over to his young son and heir, scooping the boy protectively into his arms as his sharp eyes surveyed the forest at their feet. “What did I say to you before we left? _You must not go beyond the Wall._ I made you promise.” Jorah laid his head against his father's fur coat where it was warm. Jeor kissed his son's head and tightened his grip.

“I wanted to see,” Jorah replied, spinning the winter rose between his fingers.

“It's the same on this side as the other.”

“See if I could get around it...”

“Why ever would you want to do that?”

Jorah shrugged. “It was easy. Anyone could do it. Do Wildlings come?”

There were patches of ash in the ice. Jeor knew they were pits left from burning Wildling bodies from previous raids. “Sometimes. Do you want to know a secret?” They boy nodded in reply. “All right. The Wall wasn't built to keep Wildlings away. They get through all the time. Up and down the Wall from here to Eastwatch by the Sea. The Wall is for the Others. Do you remember them from Nan's stories?”

Jorah had nightmares about them for years. “What happens if  _they_ come?”

“Remember our words?”

“Here we stand...”

Jeor smiled proudly at his son. “Here we fucking stand.”

 


	29. Sea of Souls

 

###  **SEA OF SOULS – ASSHAI**

Heat bled from the mountains as though they were a smouldering camp fire on a Winter's night. Either side, where the black rock met the shallow sea, there were patches of liquid fire raging against the tide. The poisoned waters crashed up against the bleeding fire, fusing bone fragments into the morbid shore as it boiled in a hideous, final gasp.

Daenerys Targaryen and a Northern prince clambered onto a dead section of shore where it was cool enough to tread. She used the solidified bubbles in the lava as handholds, freeing herself from the foul waters. The rock was smooth underhand but riddled with dragonglass weapons consumed by the molten rock. It was a nightmare, one that left them stumbling and covered in deep gashes whenever they fell until their blood was as much apart of the mess as the smoke. The surface tore their shoes apart and caught on what remained of Daenerys' hem, dragging her backwards with every stop she took forwards.

“This place is hell,” Daenerys tripped again, halfway toward the flank of the nearest mountain. _Asshai_ lay beyond the natural barrier, under the shadow. It was the only inhabited port at this end of the world and their sole chance to make it back to the queen's fleet.

“If we make it to Asshai,” Jorah began, breathless. His limp was now a crippling gait. The waters had been his final undoing and as he looked to the towering mass of ash and fire above, separating them from the city, he knew his chances of surviving were slim. “Trust no one. Asshai grants sanctuary to the darkest creatures in this world. Enemies mingle with friends, your Grace. _Your Grace..._ ” He fell at his last words, landing hard on the broken ground. A partial arrow head protruding from the surface sliced between his ribs. He cried out and rolled off it leaving a fresh tear in his flesh.

“Jorah?” Daenerys stooped with him. Her arm wrapped around his waist, trying to haul him back onto his feet but who could move a bear? “Get up!” She insisted sharply. The enormous ice sword, strapped to his back, grazed her arm, burning her exposed flesh with its cold. She hissed, lowered her grip and tried again. This time her knight canted backwards onto his knees. He face was pale and she could see the tracks of his veins beneath the skin. _Poison_. Blood ran over her tiny hands.

“A moment...” he begged. Jorah tried to breathe but the air was filth. All around, the world rumbled and shook. Instead of snow, ash flurries encircled them, falling on his queen's silver hair. Eventually he nodded and with a growl, returned to his feet.

“I've seen this before,” Daenerys said, rubbing the burn on her arm as they moved toward the mountains. “In Valyria. The fires that came from the deep are what destroyed their entire civilisation, even its dragons. Is this what magic does?”

“I doubt it, your Grace,” Jorah replied. They ran out of rock and found ash instead. It was several feet deep and uncomfortably warm. They sank in to their knees. This was all there was on either side, traversed in the distance by burning rivers on their way to the water. “By the gods...” Jorah swore, heaving his leg out from the ash. It left them crawling forward through the soft deposits that had collected at the foot of the mountain range. “I've heard it said that beneath the waves, the world is thus. A sea of fire. We live on the cusp between two warring gods. Such a thin – line – of existence.”

“The night and day.”

“Ice and fire – storm and the sea – it is all the same to the many faced god.”

The warmth of the ash was the worst of it. Jorah could not be further from the roots of his heart – from his home, from the calm that all men of the North longed for. He did not wish to tell Daenerys the truth, that magic _had_ destroyed the world at _Asshai._ That it was choking on it. _Valyria, The Arm of Dorne_ , _The Thousand Islands_ , they were all places where magic had collapsed in a calamity. This place endured its destruction. It was dead and yet lived. A breathing paradox.

Hours of crawling through ash ended with the edge of the mountain. They climbed out onto the basalt and sat, looking over the _Sea of Souls_ and the dead desert they'd crossed. Day or night, who could tell? A heavy cloud, erupted from the mountains, covered the sky in artificial night with its own glow of a dozen bastard suns.

“Are you going to tell me what's wrong with your leg?”

Even for a bear, Jorah had been silent for too long. He felt as though the only things binding him to this life were the lengths of Daenerys' dress and off-cuts of leather wrapped around his limbs. “I got nicked by a tainted sword,” he finally admitted. “When I failed to die on the shores of Sothoryos, as I should have, I thought maybe...”

“That you had escaped the poison.”

He nodded. “Tears of Lys is strong, _khaleesi_. By all rights...”

“Finish that sentence and I'll banish you again.” Jorah didn't need to. It was obvious that he was dying. “The uh – mountains,” she shifted the subject, unable or unwilling to face the truth, “how do we cross them?”

Her knight turned and pointed to a gently sloped section that passed through a valley. It was still a long way up but there were no impassable cliffs to contend with. “We must hope the other side is favourable.” He went to stand.

“Rest...”

“We cannot,” Jorah insisted.

“Ser...”

“Now!” he growled sharply. Jorah fought against his failing body until they were both standing. They were barely human, birthed again in the smoke. “Tell me why we're in Asshai.” It was a command to keep her occupied as they began the climb toward the treacherous pass.

“For a ship.”

“For a ship,” he nodded, with a steady, solid voice. “They will know who you are but the longer you linger, the more danger you'll be in. Do not bend to their temptations.”

“There is nothing in Asshai that I want.”

“Oh there is,” he promised her. “You need _nothing_ from them except your safe passage, keep saying that to yourself, no matter what they lay at your feet. A ship. A way back to Westeros. To your father's crown. A ship.”

“You will be there with me,” she whispered. His silence rose louder than the rumble of the mountains. _He will be dead,_ Daenerys told herself. Death had been conquered in _Asshai_ , is that what he meant? Were they going to offer up her knight's corpse as trade – his life for her crown? Her dragons? Her visions? _To all she must say, 'a ship'._ Daenerys watched him lead the way up the ridge of stone. _That's why he warns me..._ She'd bargain away the realms of men if he were gone.

“Daenerys – we must hurry.”

*~*~*

She had never seen the Mormont knight falter, now every few metres he did, striking the rough surface of the mountain. Each time he'd pick himself up, moving forwards with a fresh stain on his faded, yellow shirt. Always a little weaker. He dripped sweat onto the ground as he started humming some old tune that she recalled from her childhood. Maybe it was all a dream and they were back in the _Red Waste_ with half a _khalasar_ and dragon hatchlings chirping at the stars.

Jorah fell again. And again. Again. _Again._

Daenerys began to cry quietly as she watched. He must have known this was coming from the moment her dragon abandoned them on the ranges. He could have died there, with fresh water and the cool mountain air but instead he'd dragged her as close as he could to a ship.

“Dany?” It was half a whisper from Jorah. He'd fallen beside and overhang of basalt. Settled in the shadow beneath was a clutch of dragon eggs. Five eggs of varying sizes snuggled together, partially covered in ash. _They look like stone,_ Jorah thought, as he reached in.

“No,” she stopped him, “don't touch them.” He obeyed, pulling his hand away. “Leave them be. There are enough dragons in the world.”

“They'll hatch on their own, _khaleesi._ ”

“I hope so.” Daenerys tried not to think about the bones of baby dragons in the desert. Did they all die, trying to make it to water? Was this part of the world too sick even for dragons?

“I wonder when they were laid?” Jorah added, enamoured by the eggs. If they had found these so easily then there must be more, hidden in the cliffs. Maybe thousands. “Yesterday? A hundred years ago? It's impossible to tell.”

“We should move quietly. Some say the dragons only sleep.”

He nodded and they left the eggs where they were.

At the cusp of the ridge they hit a cool wind, rushing up the Northern side of the mountains. Laid out at their feet was the dead sprawl of _Asshai_. They took a step back. The city was folded around the land, creasing like a maiden's gown or the flows of cooling lava crowning the peaks.

“Have you seen anything like this?” Daenerys whispered.

“No, my queen. Never like this. You could keep all the cities in the seven kingdoms inside that. A million people, easily. More even – look – it goes further East down that filthy river and into the next range.”

“A million people, is that what we saw under the water? What war is worth so much life?”

“The battle for the dawn,” Jorah was certain. “I was wrong,” he murmured, unsteady on his feet. The mountain below shook and a fresh crack appeared, spewing fire close by. Its heat was brutal and too much for the bear. “There is something in Asshai you need. Answers...”

*~*~*

“Ser Jorah. Ser Jorah. _Please_. Mormont you wake up this instant!”

It rained ash with all the ferocity of a Southern storm until there was only ridge where they sat. Either side it was as though the clouds had come to earth and laid with the ground, all grey and dead. Truly, this was the end of the world. Only a flaming caldera on the adjacent rangers cut through the horror, erupting with fresh violence. Whenever they breathed the ground shook. Molten rock was thrown into the air and either laid to rest on the mountain like fiery hair or returned to the surging pits of magma which sloshed inside the volcano like a second sea above the land.

Daenerys was terrified. Jorah laid in front of her, half buried by the falling ash as though it were trying to snatch him from life and drag him into the abyss with all the other stolen souls. She brushed it off his face and shook him by the shoulders, screeching at him.

“You listen to me, Jorah the Andal!”

He stirred. “I'm not a bloody Andal...” Jorah croaked in protest. Her hand lay on his cheek. He managed to open his eyes. They were black with only a faint rim of ice. “I am blood of the First Men.”

Despite herself, the queen found a smile. “Is there a difference?” she brushed her thumb lightly over his cracked lips.

“Insurmountable.”

She grabbed his hands and used her weight to pull him into a seated position. Eventually he untangled himself from her grip and shook his head firmly, telling her _no_. “Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons,” Jorah's voice was thick with gravel. He could barely speak but with his last words, he wished to say her name. He did it with tears forming in the creases of his eyes. “Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains – Queen of Meereen...”

Her own tears fell. The city she'd left broken in the sands. He continued and she couldn't bear it because he believed every word as though it were truth and not a dream. _She was no queen. It was a mirage, rippling in the flames, about to be chased away by the night._

“Princess of Dragonstone and _Khaleesi_ of the Great Grass Sea. You _get up_.” He implored her.

Daenerys closed her eyes, more tears falling. They left tracks in her soot-stained skin. “I can't.”

“You must.” Jorah insisted. “The night is coming and you are the only dragon in the world.” He could see her cowering at the violence of the mountains and the fire raining around them. She trembled at the thunder, looking to him. “Do not fear the flames. Not now. Remember what you used to tell that little shit of a brother?”

“Fire cannot burn a dragon...” she murmured. The poison had him. It counted down his breaths.

“Exactly. These mountains cannot hurt you. They are the seat of your power and power is frightening. Look into those flames.” He waited until she turned and stared. They welled up and were thrown out, falling like stars and laying in burning rivers that could have been a night sky. “That is what nests in your heart. I saw it, when you stepped into the fire.”

Daenerys turned back to him, her friend. “You're not going to die in this forgotten place.”

“I am.”

“I forbid it!”

“Valar morghulis...”

“Those are _not_ my words.”

“Fire and … blood.” Jorah was starting to sag toward the ash. He could feel the pull of death's tide.

“Yours?” she insisted. “Make sure the gods hear them.”

“Here … I -”

“Stand...” Daenerys finished when he could not. “On your feet, Mormont.”

From nowhere, Jorah Mormont recovered strength enough to kneel but he simply could not stand. He reached behind and slid the ice-sword free of its tethers and brandished it.

Daenerys' breath caught in her throat. He was staring straight past her to the figures assembled behind.

There were five cloaked shadows on the ridge. They said nothing. Did nothing. Their hoods were charcoal with a red trim, torn at the base from travel. Odd angles formed where their concealed weapons pressed against the fabric. Thieves or worse.

“We seek passage to Asshai,” Daenerys said, standing as they grew uncomfortably close. “And a ship, to the West.”

The world rumbled around them. A long silence drew out until Jorah's ruse faltered. His strength failed. He dropped the ice weapon and fell to his hands and knees, unable to move. Daenerys picked it out of the ash. It was too heavy and long for her. She looked unwieldy, easy to vanquish and she knew it.

Four of the men pushed their hoods back to reveal twisted faces, riddled with scars. They too had swords – heavy broadswords that could sever her with a well placed strike.

“That's a fine sword you've got there,” one of them said in rough Common Tongue. Daenerys gripped the handle of her weapon more tightly. “Mind if I have a look?”

“Stay back...”

“Or what?” he replied. “Your knight is dead.”

Daenerys knew it was true. She'd heard him fall. “We seek passage to Asshai,” she repeated, defying her fear.

“Come on, princess, a bit closer. Give us the sword... It's such a pretty thing.”

“I am _you queen_ ,” she choked.

“You were _his_ queen.”

She couldn't look. “I am -”

“We know who you are.”

The largest of the men stepped forward. In a smooth motion, he twisted his sword and lunged at the dragon queen. In fright, she lifted the ice weapon. The two blades met and in an instant, the man's steel sword shattered. The sound rang out over the mountains, bouncing off the smoke. The remains of his sword scattered with the ash at his feet. Daenerys spun, pointing the weapon at the man's throat. His unholy eyes dropped inquisitively to the blade.

“That's not your magic,” he whispered, before dissolving into smoke.

The others blew away with him until only one figure remained. They had been nothing more than shadows bound in magic. It was a woman who pushed her hood back and approached Daenerys. She was recognised at once – from her dreams.

“Quaithe...” The sword slipped from her hold.

“You're going to need that. Welcome to the Shadow Lands, your Grace.” Quaithe's attention lowered to the fallen knight. She shook her head, almost as a parent might scorn a misbehaving child. The man was nearly beyond her help. “What would you give to bring him back?”

Finally Dany sat beside him, clearing away more ash from his face. He was going cold beneath her touch. “You know already.”

“He'll never forgive you.”

Daenerys nodded. “I understand.”

 


	30. Whispers

 

###  **THE SUMMER SEA**

Varys rarely allowed his attention to wander from _Rhaegal_ . The dragon lounged on the ship's deck, unmoved by the steady patter of warm rain across its scales. Water folded between them, collecting in a lake around the creature before it rejoined the air as steam. It was a passing whisper of a storm, hardly shadowing the afternoon from the rich golds and reds that loved to play in the sky above _The Summer Sea_.

The first distortions appeared on the horizon several hours ago. They were little more than tiny bumps against the waves but soon they would grow into the fractured cliffs that littered the _Arm of Dorne_ and its thousand disputed islands. It was beautiful albeit entirely inhospitable. Varys remembered it as a wretched place of screaming gulls and marauding pirates with the stink of sea-things left to decay on the rocks. With the smoking ruins of _Valyria_ to their right it was difficult to ignore the physical manifestation of destruction which magic inflicted on the realm.

“You don't fancy magic, do you?” Tyrion had been watching Varys for some time – particularly the way the spider leaned over the ship's rail with his ochre robes billowing like wings. Most of the crew kept below deck, out of the rain. Tyrion had come up to deposit another load of fish for their guest. A well fed dragon was less likely to bite – at least, that's what he chanted to himself as he set the barrel beside the creature.

“Would you,” Varys replied, as Tyrion joined him, wiping rain from his face, “if you were me?”

“Magic folk are always after dwarves. As a pleasant slaver once told me, our cocks are worth more than a ship.” There was an awkward pause and a despairing sigh from Varys. There was too much talk of cock with the imp. “Our world is what it is, however much we learned folk may disapprove.”

“We disapprove with cause,” Varys defended. “I've seen it, you know, that great ugly stain of a castle granted to Baelish.”

“Harrenhal?”

“That's the one. A twisted pile of rock and ash with a view to the swamps and their Isle of Faces. Worst place I've ever been. Believe me, I've found some steps of hell in my travels across the Narrow Sea. All those Weirwood trees the Northern men revere...” They resided in Varys' dreams. Pale wooden ghosts. “Faces of the dead peering on the world of the living. Gathering secrets for the gods men forgot. They should have burned them all.”

“Baelish will never see that castle while a Bolton lives. Last I heard it was infested with them. Tricky thing, the North. It's a squabble. Nobody appreciated the Starks. I'm sure they do now.”

“Littlefinger will never take up residence inside those walls,” Varys countered. “He thinks they're cursed. Try to imagine it – the largest outpost in Westeros and it sits empty because men fear the murmurings of gods.”

Tyrion smirked. The rain turned heavy but the sun cut through a break in the clouds, casting a stream of shattered colour which bowed over the water in front. “The castle is empty because it costs a fortune and is a bitch to heat. Men fear their pockets over the fickle gods. It's also a fucking ruin.”

A heavy dragon tail slid against the wood, flopping over the ship's rail beside Varys – who startled. Sick of dragons, Varys took his leave and descended below deck to dry off.

“He gives me that look too,” Tyrion assured Rhaegal.

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

Hooves charged at the powdered snow, sinking in search of the cobbled surface. The _Kingsroad_ tracked from one end of the realm to the other but today it lay beneath a blizzard's corpse. Early morning broke as the horses entered the pine wood, climbing the hills that encircled the protected valley. Bodies lay in every corner. Most appeared as outlines in the snow betrayed by a glint of bloodied armour. A few shivered, groaning at the day. _So much for the Lord of Light_ , Petyr thought. Stannis Baratheon's banners were caught in the limbs of the pines, torn to shreds by the savage Northern wind.

 _Winterfell_ lay as smoking ruin. In the distance, Ramsey Bolton and a small guard of men rode East to the _Dreadfort_.

“Do you wish to send men after the Bolton bastard? Easy pickings.” His general asked, stalling his horse on the edge of the rise beside Littlefinger. After a long march, they were hungry for war.

“Let him run,” Baelish replied. “That veil of protection he flees toward will unravel soon enough. Half their army will defect when they learn the bastard's at the helm.” Outside the walls, Bolton's pack of wild dogs feasted on carrion and hunted the living. “Kill the dogs first.”

“At once, my Lord.”

It was a spectacular sight. _Winterfell_ had cracked like an egg and birthed a dragon. What violence. Such unbridled chaos. It gave his eyes a curious shine. Petyr didn't hunt control at the edges of the world – he wanted to fan the flames of upheaval and rule over whatever emerged from the ash.

*~*~*

 _Silverwing's_ fire had melted the fields of snow around _Winterfell_ , turning it into an eerie lake – sucking in the remains of war. Overnight, it froze into a dangerous veneer of blue which mirrored the cracks in the face of The Wall and the sapphires embroidered into Littlefinger's chain. It was a delicate creation, crafted with silver songbirds on every third length. A subtle declaration that he'd clawed his way up a few more rungs on the ladder.

His men rounded up the surviving Boltons from the smouldering stronghold and brought them before Lord Baelish. He immediately ordered the highest ranking man killed. His general carried out the order swiftly, pushing his sword straight through the soldier's back and out his chest with pieces of torn flesh clinging to the sword. The body was left to fall against the wall, left in the process of dying while Petyr addressed the prisoners.

“Cold, isn't it?” Baelish began, dismounting his horse. “I remember weather like this when I was a boy. It was a particularly long Winter. Some of the things that blow in from the sea – unimpeded by our walls...” He'd witnessed storms shake castles to their core. “You've seen what happens to walls,” he gestured at the burned remains of _Winterfell_ , pressed at their backs. “The trouble with being feared is that you forget what fear really is. I see three houses that should know better than to keep company with petty murderers. Particularly _you_ ,” Baelish approached a guard wearing a Tully signet ring.

“My Lord...” The Tully guard sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Please-” he begged. “Ramsey, he took my girls. Burned my lands in the North. He-”

“Sh...” Petyr gently pressed his gloved finger to his own lips. He knelt down beside his bannerman, placing a free hand protectively on his shoulder. “I understand. The Boltons they are – ruthless, violent people that dominate with terror. You did what you had to do for your family. I admire that. Defying your lord is a brave thing.”

“My Lord...”

“I forgive you.” Baelish's voice was so soft it would put a lady's silk to shame. “What is your name?”

“Walker Fraist, of the lowlands.”

“Walker Fraist of the lowlands,” Baelish's arm snaked all the way around the shaking man, “all I want to know is what happened to the Stark girl and then you can go – find your children if you can.”

“Sansa Bolton?”

“Stark...” Petyr's voice wavered sharply for a moment. “I left her here, you see and I promised her mother that I would look after her. Is she alive?”

Walker nodded. “Yes. Alive. She jumped from the walls with the bastard's creature and fled North. They sent search parties but she has help. All the Boltons found were the bodies of their men.”

“How long ago was this?”

“A day, no more.”

Petyr squeezed the man's shoulder reassuringly. “Thank you, Fraist of the lowlands. I will not forget your honestly. Now go...”

“Thank you, my Lord.” Walker started to stand as Petyr pulled away. He made it as far as his knees before the blade ripped through his neck, severing a pulsing artery which immediately washed the grey wall with a thick coat of traitor's blood. Walker pawed at his neck, drowning.

Baelish watched impassively, handing the knife to one of his men who cleaned it in the snow and handed it back. “Cowards.”

The Godswood rustled beside, flanking the castle. Littlefinger thought he saw a hint of red from the Weirwood tree. He remembered it perfectly and the stolen day he'd sat beneath it reading stories of the ancient wars to Catelyn – the heavy book spread over his knees and her violent red hair tangled across his shoulder...

“Kill them all.”

###  **A CAVE – BEYOND THE WALL**

_Bran's view was obscured by the godswood. Crimson. Ochre. Lakeweed-green. Smears of white. They collapsed atop one another. An endless blur of life and death. Then stone walls, jutting above the canopy. Breaking apart. Crumbling into the ice. Swallowed by Winter. Winterfell. Home._

_He reached forward, lifting a pine branch. Days fled, as if time wrestled with itself. The castle walls went up and down in a moment, forged and destroyed, over and over. All at once. It was in limbo until a shadow of early Northerners reversed through their time and the bricks that built the first castle undid until a lone Stark stood at the heart of the valley, contemplating the view. Bran the Builder. He was a huge creature with broad shoulders, trailing beard and draped in direwolf furs._

_A step forward caused the godswood to surge around Bran's body, expanding to conquer the valley and reach into the hills behind, eating away the snow. It rained. The Weirwood gasped and unravelled into a sapling._

Bran woke.

He was in the depths of Bloodraven's cave, surrounded by hungry roots. They twisted down from the ceiling, grasping at anything that lay in the darkness. Bloodraven was somewhere else. Though he was fused to the Weirwood seat, his eyes were white, rolled back into his head and into some other time. That's when Bran noticed the macabre song. It was a faint hush on the filthy air, coming from deeper in the cave.

Not wishing to wake the old man, Bran dragged his body over the dirt floor and through the piles of bones. They smelled of rotted flesh and fresh grass. Weirwood sprouts unfurled from the filth, all green and oddly alluring.

Deeper. Dirt became rock as he found the backbone of the cave system. Natural pits dropped away, nearly invisible. The only source of light came from glow-worms, suspended on delicate beaded strings. They swung gently in mammoth constructions, almost a city of stars strung out across the roof. Bran found himself on a narrow bridge of rock with chasms either side. Roots withered into them, trailed into nowhere. He could not see where or if they ended.

On the other side, Bran emerged into curved room naturally eaten into the rock, walled entirely with Weirwoods. They had amassed into cocoon-like structures, some older than others. Inside each one Bran saw the face of an ancient man, eyes rolled back, flesh pale and soft. Greenseers. Dozens of them, entombed alive. The lonely song came from this place, echoing out from the human husks. Bran closed his eyes.

_A dragon. Black as the hearth. It lay by a river amid towering Southern figs. Mournfully, it sang at the Weirwood tree, digging its heavy body into the mud and tangle of mangroves._

_Gone. Replaced by a shallow swamp, water to his knees. Bran passed through a forest of pale Weirwoods and their ghostly reflections in the still water. Children of the forest disappeared behind the trees as he approached. Shadows. Whispers. And then there were the terrible faces. He thought he saw them move. One of them looked like him. It was screaming._

_Waist-length silver hair. The gleam of armour. Brynden Rivers stood before him amidst the forest which bowed away from his figure as though he were a god. He appeared not as a corpse nested in the dark but as a youthful knight, Hand of the King. His fine jaw was obscured by a raven's mark. The crimson smear matched his eyes. Unlike his siblings, there was fire burning in them. He rested his claw-like hands on the hilt of a Valyrian sword._

_It was the first Targaryen warrior that Bran had even seen. They were nothing like Old Nan's stories or the scrolls of his maester. At first Bran thought those harsh eyes were fixed on him but Brynden was looking past the apparition._

_Bran turned._

_There, beneath the weeping bowers – a Whitewalker. He heard a sword unsheathe._

###  **WOLFSWOOD – THE NORTH**

Sansa brought her scrap of a convoy to stop. The pines were thick and the snow – thicker. The North was taking on its true form, embracing the return of ice and the quiet that came with it. Brienne was first to alight her horse, tying the restless creature to a tree's girth. The creature stood mutely in the cold, shivering its enormous muscles.

“My Lady,” Brienne helped Sansa from her horse. “Are you all right? Podrick – fetch another blanket from the -”

“No... It's not the cold. It's _this_. Running. Why am I running from my home?”

“Your brother is at The Wall. You have many enemies between here and there. If we linger, the Boltons will find us.”

Sansa set her dark, winter eyes on the Southerner. “This is _my_ home,” she replied. Sansa could hear Littlefinger's words, whispered to her the day he'd left her to Ramsey's will. _Stop running._ The world was not going to save her, she'd have to do that herself. Her father would do it. Rob _did it_. Was she not of the same ilk as her siblings? She was a Stark. “I will not run.”

“I swore to your-”

“I know,” Sansa stopped the large knight before she could finish. “And if you wish it, I release you from your vow. Whatever waits for me back in Winterfell – it is not your duty to face it. Go home to Evenfall and to your poor father.”

Brienne shook her head. “I swore another oath, to you, Lady Stark. If you wish to return to Winterfell, I will take you there. So will Podrick.”

Podrick nodded dutifully, clutching a rug. “Aye.”

“My Lady Sansa...” It was a quiet voice from her left. Sansa turned to find Theon standing in the snow. He held his horse firmly by the reins. The beast was gentle, nudging at the ruined coat barely covering his shoulders, able to smell the hay from the barn they took shelter in earlier. “If you stay,” Theon continued, “you will need an army to survive. The Boltons will be back. Ramsey is – well 'crazy' seems to kind a word for what he is. He would skin the world if only to watch the heart stop.”

“Where do you find an army?” Sansa asked, looking to the wilderness that surrounded them. “My brother raised one but those were different times, before the North fractured. Who is left to rally?”

“What if I brought you one?” Theon offered, stepping closer. As the days passed he had started to shed the fearful creature Ramsey made of him. “Let me sail. I will ride West, through The Rills and find a ship at Blazewater Bay. The winds are savage and fast, your grace. My father and sister are not unreasonable. A Stark is preferable to a Bolton, I will make them see that.”

Brienne was suspect. Everyone heard tales of the Iron Born. They pillaged and raped their way to the throne and stayed there, like an unsightly growth of barnacles on a ship's keel. Their ways held fast through many kingdoms. It was not in them to fight a noble war.

Theon caught the knight's accusing look and approached. “I know, believe me. This is not an empty deal. I will offer them information in return. Ramsey was not careful around me. I know how to topple the Dreadfort and conquer the Bolton's amassed fortune inside. There's enough there to buy a new fleet. It will work.”

Sansa eventually took Theon's trembling hands in hers. Neither of them were whole but they would be again, one day – or die trying. “Greyjoy,” she deliberately used his house name, “your place is home. Next time I see you, it will be with an army at your back. Now tell me, who are you?”

Theon steeled himself, inhaling deeply of the freezing air. He was more Northerner than Iron Born. “I am Theon Greyjoy.”

“And what are your words?”

 _Winter is coming..._ He thought to himself. Those were his words. “What is dead may never die.”

“They killed your name. Now you're immortal. I will take no vengeance on your house. Our blood is for the Winter.”

“Winter is coming.”

She took his hand – squeezed it tight in hers. “Winter is here, _brother_.”

*~*~*

Brienne spun her horse, chasing something in the air. Words. Not even. Thoughts... They were part of the winds, caught in the snow. Whatever it was rattled the horses. They bucked against their rein with a burst of sharp whinnies. She petted the neck of her horse to hush it.

The woods were not empty. An army crashed out from a sunken track beside them, picking their way through the dense clusters of ancient pines.

“I see them,” Sansa whispered. The army had not spotted the three horses keeping to the shadows but they would soon, if they did nothing.

“Do you recognise their banners?” Brienne asked.

Sansa searched for a banner and found it – vanishing around the trunks of trees as the army marched. It was the distinctive sky-blue of _Manderly_ with their foreign fish-god. “Manderly – my father's men.” Brienne tried stop her as Sansa moved to ride toward them. “They are loyal to my father. The North remembers. They owe us a debt.”

*~*~*

The _Manderly's_ rallied to the last Stark along with the fleeing survivors of Stannis Baratheon's army. They were joined by tiny forest villages reeling from the Boltons' blood lust. All pledged their allegiance while the _Manderly_ ravens flew to those loyal in the North and soon the smaller houses despatched men to join the emerging army. It wasn't only that Sansa was a Stark – rightful heir to the ancient _Winterfell_ stronghold – it was that the Boltons were murders, destroying families, burning villages and plundering castles. The North was being flayed without the Starks. A few greedy houses facilitated the massacre, growing rich on murder. The North was tired of it and ready to rally behind _anyone_ who might stop the Boltons.

“My Lady Stark...” A _Manderly_ commander rode up beside the young girl. Her red hair was returning, fighting against the black disguise. He could not help but note how very like her mother she appeared. Her countenance though, was quite Eddard Stark. She marched that horse like the snow was _hers_. “A raven has come.”

“Another house pledge?” she asked.

The commander lowered his eyes, focusing on the hooves sinking into the snow. “No... It is news from The Wall – from – from Lord Commander Thorne.”

Her brother was dead.

Sansa let the message fall onto the ice. Her face was one of stone, unmoved by the news. Now she truly was the last Stark.

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

At _Winterfell_ Sansa found an army sprawled over the icy ruins. It was huge. Thirty-thousand men shivered in the cold displaying green songbirds on their chests. Lord Baelish and the balance of _The Veil's_ army. Sansa recognised them at once and felt her mood take a turn toward Winter. _He left me with that monster_ , she thought, _to be bought and sold like a common goat. Is that what she was to him – livestock?_

They met on the battlefield alone with the ruins as their backdrop and the mountains, their ceiling. Littlefinger had a changed countenance. He left his army at _Winterfell_ and Sansa's lingered along the edge of the godswood. Her ferocity grew as he drew closer. If it weren't for him – _if it weren't for him she'd be dead_... It was as sobering thought, one that held her tongue as Littlefinger reached her. He stopped – a surprisingly soft smile on his lips. Without a word, he knelt on the ice in front of Sansa, never taking his eyes off the Northern woman who looked so very like her mother.

“Sansa Stark...” Baelish very deliberately reverted to her old house name. “I have been misled terribly by the cruelty of a once loyal house. Here, alone, I have come to beg your forgiveness for my part in the whole affair – believe that I arranged your marriage to Ramsey Bolton with a view a return to your rightful home and position. Had I known-” he hesitated. There was truth in his words, undeniably, “I'd have razed the castle before leaving you here. If it is the last thing I do, I will punish Ramsey for the evils he laid on you – I swear it.”

It was snowing again. The weather could barely hold out a day before giving into the passing drifts. “You swear that you did not know?”

“On your mother's life.”

He would not have said those words lightly. Sansa considered the man at her feet. His army sprawled behind, lined temptingly along the ruin. When she offered her hand, forgiveness was implied. As Sansa was led toward _Winterfell_ her army of mismatched Northern houses followed.

“Who are they?” Littlefinger inquired after them. She explained and he smirked with pride. “It is one army now.”

*~*~*

Midnight. The moon found a way through the passing clouds, lighting the dark trees and the pale snow. The armies formed an isle from _Winterfell_ to the godswood, all the way to the sprawling fire-touched carpet of Weirwood leaves. Those ancient trees were the embodiment of fire and ice with frozen roots and a burning crown. Sansa walked it alone with the soft cries of distant wolves. Her wolf was gone, now she was the wolf.

The men held candles. It transformed their number into a dazzling ocean in the dark. Winter roses fell in tangles from the pines, blown about by a gentle wind. Some were knitted through her hair amidst stray snowflakes.

There it was – the imposing apparition of the Weirwood. Its bowers bled into the pines while one, horrific face sat at its heart, carved into the wood by some forgotten thing. Lord Baelish waited with Brienne and Podrick. The rest were Northerners who knew the old words. A hushed chant started in the crowd. They were prayers to the old, mysterious gods of the snow that had kept the North safe for thousands of years.

*~*~*

Podrick was mesmerised by the voices of the soldiers. They way they said their words, over and over, it was almost a song. A hymn to the gods. A tide rising and falling. The Lady Sansa had been reborn. She strode towards them, eyes fixed on Littlefinger – a man Podrick knew chiefly by reputation and Tyrion's stories. It was only here that he saw the true man. Tyrion had always said that you could never be sure what Littlefinger wanted but Podrick could see the answer quite clearly. He wanted _her_.

When Sansa reached the end, more words were said. One of the knights had made a rudimentary crown from Weirwood twigs. It was a dangerous, unsightly thing but something shifted in the North when it was passed to Littlefinger who placed it on Sansa's head declaring her _Queen in the North_.

###  **THE SUMMER SEA**

_Littlefinger_ old friend. Varys' laid the scrap of paper on the table, unfurling its tattered edges which bared damage from a storm. He ran his soft hands along the parchment. He was signing with a new mark – _Protector of the Veil_ , or so he thought. The Veil remained one of the only corners of the world that lacked a need for protection. It was an artful mess of cliffs, good for nothing save conspiring and _oh_ how his old friend conspired. Varys could feel the calculations seeping from the text.

_'If you find yourself in the region, take of my wine. The Queen's husband is welcome at our hearth.'_

“The Queen's husband is dead,” Tryion noted, some time later. He nudged the odd bit of paper away, not quite sure he wanted to get between a spider and bird.

“He means _you_.”

Tyrion blinked. “Me?”

“For a lion, you don't have the sharpest claws in the realm... Sansa Stark remains your wife by law.”

“Queen?”

“In the North. She's taken up the historic title and assembled an army of loyal Northern houses. They rallied around her cause the moment the Boltons fled _Winterfell._ Ramsey is a difficult pill to swallow after Roose.”

“My wife – the queen?” he was still trying to understand. “Wait – am I -?” Tyrion nearly dropped his glass.

“Technically? Probably... I believe that all depends on whether you intend to join their cause or rally to your old house. More wine?” Tyrion nodded and held his cup out. “King Consort, would be more correct in this case. What shall I reply?”

Tyrion choked on the sickly wine. The barrels had been aboard the ship so long that they had begun to turn. “Careful what you whisper to Baelish... He's always had an eye on my wife. I heard a few whispers of my own in the capital.”

“It would be rash to kill you out of jealousy.”

“Gee – _thanks_. We know nothing about that man.”

“I know what he wants.”

Tyrion smirked into his wine. “Do you? I doubt it. What?”

“I haven't even got to the best bit.”

Tyrion's eyes widened and he refilled his cup. He wondered how Varys was going to top a surprise coronation. Shortly after he spat the wine out altogether. “Again?”

“A silver dragon destroyed the stronghold of _Winterfell_. It lays in ruins, covered by an unseasonally heavy snow.”

“Clearly a lie.”

Varys reached behind him and emptied a small bin full of parchment, ready to burn. “Too much smoke. The creature has been seen all the way to The Wall where it vanished into the lands beyond. My history of Westeros is a bit shaky-”

“No it isn't.”

“-but there are only a few dragons unaccounted for after the war. Judging from the description, this must be Silverwing, Queen Alysanne Targaryen's dragon. It was always a wild thing, let us hope that it has vanished for good. If this creature is still alive, she would dwarf the dragon sleeping on deck.”

“Look – I've tried to move him but...”

“I wasn't nagging. Let sleeping dragons lie, I always say.” Varys suddenly pushed his stool out from the table and stood, taking a measured bow at the woman standing their door. “Lady Missandei.”

She nodded in kind, uneasy with the two Westerosi advisers speaking alone in hushed tones. “The ships are lowering their sails, preparing for the pass through the Arm of Dorne. Do you want us to raise the banners?”

Varys nodded.

“Will it work?”

“I dare say the realm has not slipped so low into depravity that they would attack a _Braavosi_ merchant fleet. We cannot afford to get into a war on the sea. If anyone spots Targaryen banners it'll be a free-for-all, floating buffet. Is there nothing you can do about the dragon?”

Tyrion shrugged. “What do you want me to do – hmm? Hide it under a sheet?”

*~*~*

Tyrion muttered foul words the whole way to the deck. Nervous sailors laid out a torn sail. It was a huge sheet of canvas, flapping in the crisp wind. In the distance he could see the first of the scattered islands, remnants of _The Arm of Dorne_. It was a mess of ocean, littered with a thousand unnamed fragments left after the cataclysm that split apart the earth.

“You're mad...” Varys whispered, with something akin to amusement. He'd witnessed the imp do a lot of stupid things but this had to be loitering toward the top of the list of 'activities likely to result in death'.

“It'll be fine...” he hoped, rather than believed. “Cheer up,” Tyrion added, when Missandei joined them with a distinct cross line set into her forehead. She had a rare talent for projecting disapproval – something he'd learned during their High Valyrian lessons. “It will. Rhaegal is a kitten.” Varys' look worsened and Tyrion decided to quit while he was ahead.

The sail needed the help of a dozen sailors to carry it over to the dragon. Rhaegal hadn't left his spot in the two days since he'd landed. Every now and then he growled at the gulls brave enough to land on his back. They lined up along his spines, cawing at the ocean breeze. He was a conspicuous addition to their fleet – especially the long, thick tail draped over the bannister, twitching at the spray. His scales were a deep, forest green and exceedingly beautiful. Before attempting to drape the fabric over him, Tyrion laid his hand on the dragon's snout.

“Are you going to be a good dragon?” he asked. Rhaegal replied with a dubious trail of smoke wafting from his nostrils.

 


	31. Fever Dreams

 

###  **TEMPLE OF THE PALE LION - ASSHAI**

“What do you see?”

Murmured words within the temple. They came from nowhere and everywhere, circling the room where Daenerys stood, copying themselves over and over until they were nothing but a blur. It was the same with Truth. A hundred years rolled into rumour, a thousand left a flicker struggling in the dark. Some called it hope. It was _madness_.

A wall of smoked glass vaulted above Daenerys. It had a look of ice about it, melted over an obsidian skeleton, reforging and cooling in immeasurable grotesque ridges. Arching around her on both sides, it enclosed the temple room and its vile, stone floor. The black tiles were greasy against her bare feet. She recognised their make from the jungle city. _Asshai_ was built from the same wretched material. It soured the air, leeching magic into the cursed ground.

She could not make out the domed roof or its fresco. The forgotten race that built _Asshai_ 's sprawling city left stories on the walls but they were hidden by the shadow that suffocated everything between the mountains and the sea.

“Nothing.” Daenerys replied. “A wall. Same as you. Only a burned wall...”

Light was scarce. Quaithe burned an assortment of candles on the floor. There was no method to their design. Tall, fat, tapers and lantern lights – they all burned directly on the tiles leaving puddles of wax. In all, it amounted to a faint glow that scarcely lit the two figures dwarfed by their surrounds. Traditional charcoal robes replaced Daenerys' ruined clothes. They dragged around her, rustling whenever she moved. Quaithe kept her face hidden by a curious hexagonal-plated mask, embossed with gold and illegible runes. Her robes mimicked the red god, _R'hllor_ and was belted with a cluster of rubies.

The queen's hair was braided with silver beads which adorned her plaits like pearls. They shifted as Daenerys looked over her shoulder. “I do not understand what you wish me to see?” she added, unnerved by silence.

“It is not what I wish you to see...” Quaithe lit another cluster of candles, cupping her hands protectively around the weak flames. They died if left unattended. “The Wall has not spoken for many years and even then, only whispers. The priests come and kneel before it and mutter their devotion but what god favours a cowering man?”

“Did it speak to you – your gods?”

“Once. Go on – you may touch it.”

Daenerys frowned and turned to face the blackened glass. Daenerys was no cowering sheep, she was a _dragon._ As she reached out the oversized robes slid down her arm, exposing cloth bindings which were partially bled through. There were more around her waist, her leg – the side of her neck. Her delicate fingers met the stone...

Stale air rushed over the room, extinguishing the candles.

Darkness. A hiss in the dark. Green fire stirred inside the wall, rising from the ground but locked behind its glass prison. It rushed out from the place her fingertips met the wall, using Daenerys as a bridge to the world. It burned without heat, encasing Quaithe and Daenerys in a terrifying vision of hell. Quaithe ducked as the flames spread over the ceiling and burned down toward them with no glass to hold them back. They were twenty-foot monsters hungry to escape, lashing out at the darkness.

Daenerys did not move.

_Wildfire skipping from mast to mast. Green flames, setting the water alight. A thousand screams. Men throwing themselves into the waves. The crack of masts. King's Landing in the shadow of the moon. Tyrion backing away from a castle wall – horror in his eyes and the reflection of the sea._

She withdrew her hand and the vision vanished. The flames remained, retreating to the ceiling where they continued to burn with the rest. They had no use of candles now. The walls were awake.

“That was not a vision of the future,” Daenerys said. “Jorah told me stories about the Blackwater and the savagery of kings – it was exactly as he said. I don't understand.”

“No one said that the flames showed the future,” Quaithe left the candles and approached the dragon queen.

Daenerys was wary of visions. “What did the flames show you?”

Quaithe paused. She unfurled her arms at the scene. “A dragon queen and a burning wall. This, I saw. You standing as you are now. The gods asked for this.”

“Which god?' Daenerys replied coolly. “Every city I have been through has its own pantheon. Horse gods, sea gods, winged gods. Some are dead, others keep silent while men kill in their stead. A million swords lay in the sands beyond this city, for a god's will? My Queensguard used to say that the old gods play with the realms of man to pass the time on a Summer's afternoon.”

The shadow binder smiled. “Your knight was wise.”

_Was_ . The word stuck in Daenerys' heart. “There is something beneath the glass...” she added, noticing veins below the surface of the dragonglass. They were white, moving and twitching. It repulsed her. Were the buildings alive?

“Weirwood roots. This temple is built on the corpse of an ancient tree, larger than any in the seven kingdoms – though I hear a few in the frozen realm are larger. It lives still, within the walls, feeding off the cold. They prefer snow. The roots seed the fire with visions, if you have the gift. They bind them into the flames.”

“I think I've seen the tree,” Daenerys replied, her features softening. She lifted her hand back toward the wall, not quite touching it. “In a dream. It was alone and dead in the Shadowlands. Much smaller than you describe. Perhaps it was not dead at all.”

Quaithe was unnerved by the dragon's words. “That is further back than any have seen... Before Asshai – impossible. Not even the Greenseers of the North glimpse such things.” A pause, then, “What – what was it like?” the woman lowered her voice, afraid the gods might be listening.

“Darkness...” Daenerys breathed. “And -” her eyes closed, “-fire. The city was already there but it was alive. There was something in its flames – flames like these...” Daenerys touched the wall again. This time, the green flames snapped free from their glass prison and dragged her into the centre of the room. They lifted her off the ground, churning furiously around her body.

_Sun mingled with smoke. It twisted in through the shattered windows of the great hall, sinking to the floor until it became a shivering sea. The Iron Throne sat above. An old, skeletal creature draped over its burned swords. The Mad King, with his twisted nails, pale face and silver beard laid over his knees in knots – choked on the destruction. He was a ghoul of a creature, contorted with malice and, as the stories went,_ mad.

_Father._

_Screams crescendoed as the enormous door at the other end of the hall parted and the Hand of the King slipped through. Jamie Lannister closed it behind him, resting against the sturdy surface for a moment, unable to wash the visions from his mind. Melted flesh and the bones of children. He never wanted to see that for as long as he lived. His eyes lifted to the cause of all the horror in his world, cradled by a butcher's throne._

“ _Your Grace, it is done,” Jamie announced, crossing the hall. His footsteps were loud enough to shake the fragile reverie. Metal. Stone. Smoke. “My father's army approach the city gate. Do we open it?”_

_The vision shifted. Daenerys found herself looking into the King's sunken eyes. He was forty going on one-thousand. A maester stooped to his right and a young Varys waited on his left. It was the spider who spoke first._

“ _You cannot...” he whispered. “Tywin means to take the city, not defend it. My birds-”_

“ _Nonsense!” The maester interrupted. He leaned over to mutter filthy things in the ear of the king until Aerys curled his shrivelled lip and nodded. “The King says to open the gate.”_

_Lannisters swarmed the city. Their soldiers spilled through the streets like a golden river, rushing up to the castle walls. It was nearly sunset. Her father slouched further in his chair. He was muttering about dragons – of being reborn into their flesh. Aerys believed himself to be one. If he had laid eyes on one, thought Daenerys, he'd know the difference between beast and man._

_Varys languished in the corner, staring out one of the stone windows to the wreckage of the city below. There was no escape from the palace – or Tywin's wroth._

_Sensing defeat, the mad king pried himself free of the bloodied throne and, on shaking legs, stepped down to meet Jamie. “Do it. Burn the city. Show your father what betrayal looks like and we will rise from the ashes. First – bring me his head and set it at my feet. That traitor. The liar. Treacherous coward – Lannister dog!”_

“ _Your Grace – he is my father...” Jamie pleaded. “And even so – you cannot burn your own city. Half a million will die in the flames. There will be no city-”_

“ _And they will be reborn.”_

“ _They will not!” Jamie insisted. “They will die with the empire.”_

_Daenerys stood between the kingslayer and her father. She could feel the fear, it hung in the room like drapes before the sun. The screams outside grew louder. Tywin reached the palace doors and pounded against them. Varys caught the young Lannister's eye and nodded. Her father turned away, intent on ascending the throne. Jamie silently removed his sword. He shifted his weight, tears in his eyes as he lifted it above his head. There was a moment, where the room said nothing, offering no warning to the king. The smoky air whistled around the sword. Aerys hesitated. The blade came down, slicing through the Targaryen flesh._

_Blood sprayed over Daenerys. She gasped. The last thing she heard as the vision faded was her father muttering, “Burn them! Burn them! Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds. All of them! The babes and women too. Burn it!”_

“Daenerys?”

The silver queen lay on the floor, thrown from above with a surge of green and an almighty _crack_! The eerie flames raged brighter than before, invigorated by the dragon's touch. Undoubtedly there was magic in a Targaryen. Daenerys was wildfire to the pale creatures lurking in the city. They'd crawl from every filthy crack to seek her out.

Daenerys groaned, rolling onto her side and touched the bruise on her face. She was leaving tears of blood over the ground from a torn bandage. “What happened? I saw...”

Quaithe stalked closer to the dragon. Beneath the golden mask, a pair of eyes sharpened – longing – desperate. “Yes?” she led.

“My father.”

*~*~*

_The putrid wreak of the tent mixed with smoke. A fire burned in its heart. Canvas and animal skin formed the walls while ghastly skeletal decorations hung from its many pillars, bumping together with a morbid tune. Frightened women, barely clothed, cowered around the edges watching the old man closest to the fire as he worried the coals with a poker. Dozens of ratty crows, men of the Night's Watch, collected near the entrance. They were frozen, half starved and nursing evidence of a fight. Their Lord Commander sensed the unrest between the men and their host. He shouted words at the crows to draw them back but the vision had no sound save the howling wind outside the tent. The restless breath of Winter._

_Crows converged on Craster. Craster lunged from his place, shouting viscously as swords were brandished. The Commander tried to break the fight apart, urging the men to leave. One in particular, he gripped by the chest and tossed out of the tent. A commotion behind. Another crow, knife in hand, plunged it through Craster's jaw and out his mouth. The man fell dead. The Lord Commander drew his sword on his man, horrified at their betrayal. The crow had one of the frightened girls by the hair, dragging her towards the table. A sword from behind, through the bear's back. Mormont whirled and took the crow by his black cloth, pushing him against a wooden pillar in surprised rage. Blood welled up into his throat. He felt death. It gripped his bones. The Commander fell to the dirt floor, staring at the bone-things twisting in the smoke._

_The treacherous crow descended on him, thrusting his knife into the dying flesh. Again. Again. Again. Again._

Air rushed into Jorah's throat. He inhaled it greedily, stretching his lungs and lurching off the black slab in shock. _Life_. His body burned, every inch of it aflame from within. The bear grimaced, holding up his arms only to find them patterned with intricate networks of maroon tattoos. He'd seen that sort of rubbish in the brothels of _Mereen_ and it suited him less than on those over-tanned, drunken sell swords.

Jorah was naked. His body was covered in the same blood magic making him appear like a strange, mythical creature rather than a man. Jorah tried to rub it off but it was beneath his skin. He curled his lip in a growl as he lifted his injured leg. A phantom pain lingered even though the hideous tear in the flesh was gone – as were the cuts from the basalt cliffs. Jorah frowned, quickly performing a check of known scars to find them equally gone. Even his childhood marks. He stopped, swallowing hard. Whatever had happened to him, if it involved magic, it couldn't be good.

_Daenerys..._

The Mormont knight had to will his body to move. It was stiff and unobliging as he shuffled off the stone slab (which boasted alarming similarities to a butcher's block) to stand in the centre of the room. It was a hideous place, small but claimed high domed ceilings and a single white door. The rest was black, like living in the abyss above the world.

Robes had been left on a small table along with the ice-sword and an array of his leather straps, rescued from his clothes. Jorah dressed and set about wrapping the ties around his arms and hands until he was satisfied. It gave the robes an odd appearance but it was nothing compared to the furious eyes of the creature wearing them.

Last, Jorah slid the sword into his belt and moved over to the door. He lay against it, listening for movement outside. Silence, as if this place was eating light as well as life. _I am in Asshai_ , he thought, though he had no memory of how he had come to be here. Were they prisoners of the armed men on the mountain? Had they been sold for a ransom to priests in some forsaken temple? There were no good options when it came to a place like this. It was death. _A ship._ Find her and then find one.

Jorah tried the handle. Locked. He pushed against it, had a go undoing the bolts that held the hinges but everything he tried was fused into the ghost-wood surface.

“It is tiresome to watch a bear swat at birds.”

Jorah turned sharply to find a familiar figure on the far side of the room. Quaithe stepped out of the shadows with a smile. He did not match it. “How long have you been there?”

“Three days. Tread gently,” she advised, when it appeared he would have another go at the door, “your injuries are healed however the poison remains. You may find that it has lasting effects.”

“Queen Daenerys?”

“Sit down,” Quaithe commanded, dragging a white-wood chair toward him. Everything in the temple was styled with either black stone or pale wood.

“No. Where is the queen?” he asked again, firmly.

“Mormont, if you do not sit, you will fall. I do not mind which. Some lessons must be learned the long way.”

“I have no time for your twisted words-” Jorah faltered as his head started to spin. Darkness closed in on the edges of his sight. Sounds faded. The vision of Quaithe blurred until he could not pick her out from the wall behind or the candle on the table.

“Visions are common, for those tainted with The Tears. Priests of the old religion experimented with the sap. Admittedly most died. Not you, Mormont.” She watched as Jorah crumbled to his knees. “We'll try this again later, after you have rested.” She added, as he fell face first onto the stone.

*~*~*

_The shadow of a beast flew above Blackwater Bay. On the tips of its wings were curved horns. They dipped into the water, creating a wash as it banked right and circled in front of the approaching fleet of black sails. As the creature lifted, a rage of fire was revealed. King's Landing burned while the silver queen watched, atop her dragon._

“ _Khaleesi...” he whispered, then startled as the ground also shifted beneath him. His dragon followed, climbing through smoke until they rose above it and caught the sun setting on the battle and night folding in over the hills._

*~*~*

Jorah woke calmly. He lay on the floor in front of the door with Quaithe standing over him, offering her hand. He accepted and allowed the sorceress to lead him to the table where he sat obediently and took of the offered wine. If she had wanted him dead, he would already be so.

“Are they real?” he asked, holding the white goblet. “The visions.”

“Are _any_ visions real?” she replied cryptically. “The flames show us possibilities. The Tears – who knows if it is madness, desire or a back door into fate?”

Quaithe was about as helpful as he remembered magic-folk to be. “You know, I met a woman like you once,” he said, “long time ago – in the Northern lands. She had about as much sense as a bag of barley. Always talking in circles. None of it amounted to anything. Nothing to say?”

“I do not disagree.”

He rubbed his arm, irritated by the fading patterns. “Was I dead? I do not remember anything – only darkness and then I was dreaming – or remembering things that were not mine to remember.”

“No. Close... Believe me, you would have a very different look about you had a necromancer been involved. Their corpses walk the streets, aimless and soulless, mere puppets. Nobody comes back from death unscathed. It takes a part of you and binds itself to what is left. Better not to come back at all. Healing is different.”

“Is that what-” he pulled at his sleeves and Quaithe nodded. “I told you once, Mormont, to take a little caution. It was reckless to sail off the edges of the map.”

“Says the witch in the city on the fringes of the world. Besides, it were the Storm Gods that tossed us off course. We should have been in Braavos by now.”

“I followed _you_ here,” Quaithe defended, “and good thing too or you would be dead.”

“Where is the queen?”

“Sit. Back. Down.”

Jorah stumbled into the chair. “Where is she...” he asked, softly this time as his body struggled to deal with the poison rushing through it. His vision blurred. Green flame appeared from nowhere, surrounding them for a moment before they vanished. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You have let your fingers dip into the darkness on the other side and like the oily stone that built Asshai, some of it has stuck with you.”

“Answer me.”

“Drink the wine.”

“Where is she?” Jorah felt a panic rise as Quaithe avoided the question. He repeated it, shouting until Quaithe said nothing at all in reply. He fumbled for the ice-sword and turned it on the sorceress, resting it at the edge of her mask.

Quaithe did not flinch. “Are you going to kill me? I am your only friend.”

“Friend?” he questioned, standing with one hand on the chair's back. The other held the sword steady. “Who are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me. You follow me, you follow _her._ Even in the queen's dreams you are there. She told me about them – the whispered words you brought in the dark. I want to know why someone on the far edge of the world gives a shit about the iron throne.”

Quaithe was disappointed. “The throne is not important,” she replied, pressing herself against the blade. The gold mask protected her from the enchanted ice. “A throne is a only a seat for power. Power needs no place to rest when it has wings.”

“Who. Are. You?”

“I am no one...” she trailed off softly.

He did not accept that. “No. No...” he insisted, fighting against the poison in his blood. “I have met many without names. You are not one of them. Tell me, or I swear...” He wasn't sure what he swore but he'd do something on that oath.

“My name was lost a long time ago.”

“Do _not_ lie to me.” Jorah was fearsome, sliding the blade down until it found Quaithe's throat. He noticed that the skin where the mask met the flesh was burned smooth. He frowned. She met his eyes. The blade lifted the mask, raising it over her head until it fell away, clattering to the floor. Jorah was shocked. He dropped the weapon and stepped backwards in apology, bowing his head.

“Your queen is not the only dragon in these waters.”

 


	32. The Sun Beneath The Waves

 

 

###  **TEMPLE OF THE PALE LION - ASSHAI**

_A thin sheet of ice lay over the bay, stilling the tumultuous waves. The rising sun lingered on its surface as a sad reflection, trapped inside the water until everything cracked, pushed under the bow of a Mormont fishing boat. A convoy returned from battle. Their bear king stood at the front of the lead boat, steel eyes focused on the streams of smoke rolling through the sea-mist and the faint glow of flame where the island hung under a shadow._

_The violent foliage of the cliff-bound Weirwood emerged first from tainted fog, looming over the Bay of Ice with red tendrils. It shed leaves onto the ice. They caught in the wind, skipping towards Jeor with a soft, thwap-thwap-thwap._

Jorah lurched oddly toward the chair as the vision crept in and out. He saw snow fall around Quaithe, tumbling over her smooth, bald skin that had been melted like the entire city of  _Asshai_ . Only a few silver wisps remained near her ear. They matched her thick, white eyelashes. Jorah steadied himself. The snow and the image of his father faded, replaced by the mismatched eyes of his companion.

“Illusions do not withstand scrutiny,” Quaithe explained, when she caught him staring.

“Your face – a fire?” Jorah asked, unable to take his eyes off the woman before him. She was mythical in a way he could not describe and older than she first appeared.

“Your queen did what I could not,” she replied, deciding to sit. First, she plucked her gold mask from the floor and fussed with it, tracing the tiny golden plates. She'd not let anyone see her without it for a very long time. “Awaken dragons.”

“Dragons did that to you?” he asked. “Dragons have been lost to the world for-”

“No, not dragons,” she stopped him. Quaithe was... distant. “I've not spoken of it.”

“If you want me to trust you,” Jorah insisted, taking the seat opposite. “I need to know who you are.”

Quaithe could not remain seated. She left the mask on the table and circled the chair, shifting uncomfortably, clenching her fists in grief. “I tried, for his sake,” she whispered, “you must understand that what happened was an accident. He was my king and my blood.” Quaithe, who had never shown a flicker of emotion, trembled. “There were seven eggs,” she began darkly. “Two were taken from the last, sickly dragons that lived in King's Landing. One was gifted from a private collector in Dorne, another was found in the snow drifts at the edge of the wall. The final three came from Asshai, collected fresh from the mountains.”

_Seven_ , Jorah thought.  _Imagine seven dragons roaming the sky._

“I set the eggs in front of palace gods – one for each. It was a beautiful palace,” she added, as an aside. “There was nothing like it in all the world, except perhaps, the ruins of Chroyane.” Their endless beauty was now a chasm of despair, choking on ruin. “Summerhall was a celebration. A Targaryen rebirth. Aegon was consumed with tales from the golden era of conquest. He brought the family together to attempt something the realm thought impossible. The return of dragons.”

“You were brought from Asshai with the eggs?” Jorah asked.

“I was, though I was not alone. Aegon was not satisfied with sorcery, he also brought pyromancers and stock piles of Wildfire made by the maesters of Old Town. He refused to believe that the secret of hatching dragons had been lost with the fall of Valyria. All I had were scrolls – fragments and rumour. In the wild dragons hatch on their own but nobody, in written memory, has commanded one to hatch. We tried with enchantments. I knelt before the eggs and chanted for hours with the Targaryen household waiting behind. Nothing. Impatient, the king brought in the wildfire.” Quaithe hesitated, touching her neck where the edge of the ruined skin began. “Well... you know the rest. Everyone heard what became of our king.”

“I know you are a Targaryen,” Jorah said quietly. There was no mistaking her without the mask. “A king's bastard?”

“We were all the daughters of kings...” she replied softly, repeating something told to her by another. “A different Aegon was my father. Aegon IV. And yes, I was a bastard once. No more.”

_No more._ That king's anointed bastards tore apart the realm. Black dragons against Red. It was a dance of madness. “Then I know who you are,” Jorah realised. “It's why you understand the poisons of Lys. Your mother was from those waters, yes? You have more blood of old Valyria than your father.”

“I sometimes wonder, are the ruins of my home in Valyria still sitting in the mist, untouched, covered by a veil of jungle? I like to think of them as peaceful. A place where dragons roam.”

“Daenerys is your blood.”

“Is it true what they say about the night dragons woke? In this part of the world, you hear things on the wind. Not all of them true.”

“I watched her walk into the flames myself,” confirmed Jorah, “and lived in with them all night. They never touched her. Perhaps that is what the gods wanted all along – the promise of a soul.”

“In that case, I have something for the queen,” Quaithe added. “I keep it locked away but when it comes time to leave, it is hers. A dragon horn, the last that I know of. It will call one of her dragons and from there you may escape.”

“We were planning to take a ship from the harbour and sail to meet the rest of our fleet.”

“There are no ships for you here, Ser Jorah. None that mean to take you home.”

Finally, Quaithe slid the mask back over her face. Jorah let her rest a moment before he levelled his gaze and with the famous bear stubbornness asked, “Where is Daenerys?” for she had not answered his question.

*~*~*

Daenerys sprawled herself over the dragonglass wall, arms spread out, fingers scratching at the burned surface. Green flames enveloped her, rushing around the queen's limbs as though she were the surface of the sun. Occasionally they broke free, gasping into the room, slapping against the floor before curling back to the seething mass of fire.

She was somewhere else. In another time. A place far from here.

_Still waters. An ocean where the curve of the sky and the ebb of wave were the same. There was a pirate ship with pregnant sails centred in the water. It listed gently, catching a winter wind. From no where, thick tentacles surged out of the ocean and wrapped around the ship, crushing its ancient frame, toppling the iron-wood mast before dragging it screaming to the depths._

Daenerys woke. Gasped. Rolled eyes back and fell once more into the flames.

_Ash. The throne room at King's Landing. It mocked her dreams so often that she knew it better than her childhood home. The ceiling was a twisted mess of charred wood. The golden walls had melted into puddles. Then there was the throne itself. Daenerys_ _approached, taking the steps toward its platform. A corpse sat on the throne. Eyes of ice. Pale skin. It smiled at her. She had seen this before._

*~*~*

“What do you mean, 'you don't know'?” Jorah roared back at Quaithe.

“Exactly as it sounds,” she scorned, having none of the bear's rashness. “A few days ago she vanished. I left her here while I collected supplies and I when I returned she was simply gone.”

“Well did you look for her?”

“Of _course_ I looked for. Daenerys is the most powerful magical creature in the known world, anyone one in the city could have taken her. Magic is our currency. Her dreams are worth more than all the gold in Braavos.”

“We have to find her. Now.”

“Sit...” Quaithe insisted. “I agree that we must find her but you are not strong enough. The one thing I know for sure is that whoever has her, they will not kill her. Not yet. She makes them stronger.”

“So, we're just going to sit here and talk, while she's out there on her own?”

“No. _You're_ going to sit here, I am going to find out where she. I realise that it is against your better nature to listen to advice but when have I ever steered you wrong? Remember one thing, these visions that you have, they're not real. You understand this? Don't be tempted by them. Remain here, in the present – with your Queen.”

*~*~*

Quaithe was a shadow. She moved with the rest of them – the silent mass that flowed through _The Temple of the Pale Lion_. It was a dichotomy of gods from the furthest reaches of civilisation's memory, named after the statue standing at its heart. Thirty feet high, it was carved from the remains of an ancient Weirwood tree into the shape of a lion with its ghoulish head looking to the stars. The ceiling above was open allowing the mists of _Asshai_ to sweep into the depths of the temple and filter through the halls. Around the statue's base, the existing root system sank into the stone floor and vanished into the foundations where many said it bound itself to the stone and continued to grow for a thousand years.

She stopped in front of it where the mist was at its thickest, rising to her waist. On evenings such as these, the lion wept bloody tears.

Leaving the lion, Quaithe followed a cluster of necromancers. They hissed in Rhoynish on their way to the crypts to seek out fresh corpses. Most could raise a body but they were husks, requiring the full attention of the necromancer to animate it. A week dead and not even the most powerful of their kin could waken life. She used their cover to pass into the other side of the temple known only as _Night_. Quaithe filed off from the necromancers and joined the small court where figures lingered, trying to trade relics from other lands.

_Where was he?_ Quaithe discreetly searched. Eyes followed her every move. She was used to it.  _Asshai_ had been her home longer than most of them had lived.  _There he was._

Quaithe cornered the dwarf who, unlike the rest of their company, was dressed brightly in a sapphire tunic and silver belt. He'd dyed his hair the colour of fire and pierced most of his skin, embedding all manner of semi-precious jewel into his flesh.

“The pirate king...” Quaithe mocked, bowing in greeting at the imp.

As he turned, his sombre expression faded into a cheerfully reciprocated bow. “A mere merchant!” he protested. “Of fine, rare pieces with dubious origin.”

“Of course you are.” Quaithe took his arm and led him to a quieter corner of the court.

“Listen,” the dwarf lowered his voice, “I ain't got no more of that stuff – I already told you.”

Quaithe shook her head. “No, the dose you gave me was correct,” she assured him. “As good as your word.”

“I always am,” he assured her. “But that's our favour done.”

“Indeed. You have another talent.”

“Oh do I?” He seemed intrigued by the sorceress, leaning in a little closer.

“I have it on good authority that you know the location of every magical relic worth possessing – including, perhaps, a dragon queen?”

###  **CITADEL – OLD TOWN**

Misery made its home in the barren towers of  _Old Town_ . The city had existed for too long. It had begun to wither and die, both in the decay of its buildings and the hearts of the creatures that lived within them. It was a sharp contrast to the waters butting up against the walled harbour. Lazy gulls floated on the surface, their heads turned in sleep and feathers kicked up by the softest ocean breeze. Enormous merchant vessels creaked against their ropes. Men crawled through their rigging like rats, shouting in a dozen bastard languages of the realm.

“Here again?” Sam found Gilly at the edge of the harbour with a view of the _Hightower_. “I never thought you'd be one to take a fondness for a building.”

“I'm not _fond of it_ ,” Gilly turned, leaning against the wall. Sam was dutifully dressed in maester robes, all grey and dreary, he blended into the city streets. “Don't you wonder at what it was?”

Sam craned around her, taking another look at the monstrosity piercing out of the waves. “Not really. There are lots of old, strange things in the world. If we stopped to wonder at them all we'd forget to live. I mean, I  _like_ old things but that one is...” Morbid. It had a history of violence.

Gilly shrugged. “Well I do,” she replied, holding out her palm. She showed him a few coins. “I'm waiting for a boat. One of the fisherman's wives told me that you can walk the wall.”

“That wise?” He was overtly paranoid, not controlling. Since his internment with the Archmaester Marwyn he'd become unsettled.

“Wiser than travelling South of The Wall,” she assured him, offering up a smile. “Wiser than setting up with a man of the Night's Watch who thinks himself a maester.”

He was amused. “You have a point.”

*~*~*

Gilly enjoyed the water. The small boat that took her across the bay was low on the water line. She draped her hand over the side, letting it flirt with the wash. The salt made her skin tacky but it was worth it for the rush of cool water and their guide's soothing monologue about the history of  _Hightower_ .

“ _One of the nine man-made wonders,”_ he started. Their guide spoke to them from the front of the boat, facing a small convoy of travellers. _“It stands among the walls of Qarth, the bells of Norvos, the bridge of Volantis – of course you will all have heard tales of the Titan of Braavos with his legs spread over the harbour like a great bronze whore.”_ There was a general rise of laughter among the crowd. _“Any who have travelled the Valyrian roads of the East understand why they, along with The Wall of ice in the North, top Lomas' list. The Palace With A Thousand Rooms and the Great Pyramid of Ghis are tragically ruined along with the largest castle in Westeros, Harrenhal._

“ _Finally, perhaps the most mysterious of them all, the Five Forts at the edge of the Eastern world. They are made from the same rare stone as the foundations of the Hightower. See,”_ he turned and pointed to the base of black rock where the original parts of the castle were still visible, _“some of it has been preserved. You will be permitted to walk these old walls and explore some of the tunnels. The boat leaves when the Hightower shadow touches the harbour entrance. Do not be late. Private journey costs more than any of you lot can afford.”_

Their boat latched onto a unsteady wharf at the base of black cliffs. Up close, they were horrifying, violent things that leered over the boats brave enough to approach. The rock was unstable, shedding dangerous cleaves into the water which had built up a beach around the island.

To reach the castle, Gilly climbed the network of stone-cut stairs and wooden ladders that scaled the cliffs. Half an hour later, she made it to the lowest level of the castle. It was an open courtyard of polished black stone which wrapped around the castle. It was framed by a balcony of waist-high rock and beyond that – an uninterrupted view of _Old Town_. Distance improved it, Gilly realised, finding that the city beyond had its own kind of nostalgic beauty.

The curve of the ocean beyond the city reached further. There was a line of ships on the horizon moving parallel to the coast.  _A shipping lane_ , their guide had mumbled, wandering by with his robes flapping in the wind. Gilly thought they looked like gulls, drifting lazily on the waves.

Not all of the balcony facade was intact. On the far side, facing the other bay, a large section had fallen into the water and lay below, waves crashing over it. The remains were melted, almost liquid where they formed odd pools of rock on the tiled floor. Gilly turned to find scars on the black castle walls. There were gashes cut into the stone – the largest interrupted by a window. The entrance to the crypts was below. Gilly approached, eyeing the smooth steps. She was startled as a young child propelled itself out of the darkness with a roar of laughter before joining a waiting group of children.

People and torches lined every corner of the ruined crypts. Sea-folk traversed the endless corridors, walking side-by-side with wealthy merchants and the occasional maester. The place was a curiosity. A relic and certainly tamed by immensities of time.

Gilly did as the others and took a torch.

###  **STEPSTONES – BETWEEN THE NARROW AND SUMMER SEAS**

“Are you _sure_?” Tyrion asked, as their fleet navigated the ever narrowing waters. What had begun as a few frightening protrusions of rock from the waves had become a forest of foreboding islands, twisted and broken by storms. Half their bodies lay submerged in the water and the rest played havoc with the winds.

Varys held his nerve. “It is here.”

The captain was navigating with an old chart which Varys had produced, although he would not say where from other than, “Old friends, new friends...”

“You cannot hide a fleet in these waters,” Tyrion lowered his voice. Above, an errant gasp of wind tried to steal a sail. Even the dragon was awake, watching the shadows from the islands pass over the deck.

“I can,” Varys insisted.

They were close enough to one island that Tyrion could see where it had been torn apart. Its corpse was layered with black rock, sandstone, a white streak of limestone and then granite dotted with a million shards of pink quartz. The vicious storms tore at each rock differently leaving the islands with unusually violent shapes. Tyrion turned. Behind, the rest of the fleet trailed in single file, copying the movements of the lead vessel. Their convoy trailed around an island and out of sight.

“Varys, you're mad.”

Varys was silent. The captain squinted at his chart, holding it up as if to compare to pattern of the islands in front. A moment later he pointed and the ship turned. What had looked like a tiny scrap of island from one side opened up into a thin crescent moon with towering cliff walls and a calm harbour, hidden from the world and large enough for twice their number.

“Varys, you bastard,” he amended.

“A truer thing was never said,” he replied, slithering away below deck to ruffle the feathers of his birds.

*~*~*

Tyrion sat on deck with the captain's map. It was a fragment of animal skin with marks along each edge showing where it had been sewn to other pieces of a much larger map. The details were burned into the hide and set with resin. Whatever terrible smell this caused had long been worn off by a thousand sailors' hands.

Their harbour was a caldera, open at once side. It lay near the centre of the _Stepstones_ , protected on all flanks by a maze of islands.

“And we are to leave the fleet here?” Tyrion asked, when Varys returned with an armful of ravens. Their claws dug into his robes while each one had a message tied around its black leg. Varys walked over to the edge of the deck, lifted his arm and whispered to the birds. They took flight as one shadow, vanishing into the gap between the cliffs.

“Most of it, yes,” he replied, wandering over to Tyrion. “We cannot make port in any of the free cities. A freed army of slaves is not a popular commodity and slaver cities will not tolerate it. They resent what our queen did in the East. Even the remnants of her own blood have disowned her. In trying to be a good queen she has seriously jeopardised her chances of ruling with peaceful measures.”

“Now there is irony.” Tyrion shrugged. “Mind you, she's not here to rule the East.”

“She has no chance of it either. The East is a thousand kingdoms, like these islands. They want no empire.”

“I'm not a fool, you know,” Tyrion added, watching Varys with surprisingly sharp eyes. “It has not escaped my notice that we're dangling on the edge of Dorne. The Dornish aren't fond of Targaryens never mind slaves.”

“Both those things are true.”

“Varys...”

“Everybody wants something,” he replied cryptically.

###  **TEMPLE OF THE PALE LION - ASSHAI**

_Daenerys stood at the base of The Wall. It towered over her, jutting up from a wasteland of snow which stretched as far as she could see in every direction. The ice beneath her feet trembled rhythmically with the approach of an army. She knelt, collecting a withered winter rose that had fallen from the wall. Another cluster lay between the cleaves of ice. They were grown into the surface, decorating the wall with a thousand blue stars._

“You see...” the pirate merchant whispered, hidden behind a crack in the glass. Quaithe hid beside, replacing him at the tiny slither in the wall. Beyond was a temple room walled in dragonglass, used by the seers to summon visions from the flames. Usually these were flickers in the dark, like the glass candles. Now the room was alight with flame. It roared around every surface and at its heart, the silver queen.

 


	33. Set Alight

 

 

###  **YIN – YI TI**

A dragon dove into the water, piercing through the surface like a knife dissecting flesh. It propelled itself into the depths of _Yin's_ harbour with its powerful tail, slithering through the water as though it were a sea monster, raised on the ocean fires that burned beneath _Asshai_. _Viserion_ became a flicker of gold in the murky world, navigating the ghosts of shipwrecks, forgotten monoliths taken by the sea and corpses of sand. He searched until his huge slit-eyes caught onto a flash of light. It came from the hilt of a greatsword. Tangled around it was Daario, convulsing between the crushing weight of death and urge to breathe.

The dragon wrapped its enormous clawed feet around Daario and plucked him from the sea floor. Then the creature turned and swam toward the surface at astonishing speed. It broke free – straight into flight, unfurling its wings to the sky, showering the surface in salt.

Daario gasped. His panicked lungs sucked heavy breaths. He was flying, climbing higher and higher over the harbour until he was level with the cliffs. The _Jade Gates_ were being stormed by a half-dead mass, churning from the desert in a relentless tide. They stopped and stared as the dragon swooped low and for once Daario was glad for _Viserion's_ painful grip.

Below, the pirate ships manoeuvred in the bay while a thousand wretched creatures tore through the city, edging closer to the docks. Snow filled the air while the accompanying storm crumbled along the edge of the world. Daario momentarily lost his grip on the sword. He fumbled for it, dragging it protectively toward his chest when the dragon banked sharply and rolled over so that its belly faced the sun. Daario screamed. _Viserion_ dived in the direction of a pirate queen's ship.

The sell-sword swore in every language that he knew as they came upon the vessel. _Far too fast_. The dragon was heading for the mast. The sailors on deck shouted, pointing as they neared. Then _Viserion_ did the unthinkable and _dropped him_ right out of the sky. Daario panicked, forgetting the sword as he found himself hurtling toward the mast, closer and closer until it was the only thing he could see. Every minute detail became his world. A piece of old rope caught on a nail. A mosaic of bird shit on the dark wood. Smudges of charcoal from a previous life... He reached out on reflex with some dim hope despite its girth exceeding his grasp.

He hit it chest-on with a sickening _crunch_. His arms and legs wrapped around it momentarily and then, with no traction on the polished surface, he peeled off and fell through several layers of rigging, tearing a sail before finally hitting the deck. Daario lay face to the sky for a moment with that bloody dragon circling cheerfully above before he was joined by the Valyrian sword, stabbing five inches into the deck _next to his face_.

“Is it dead?” One of he pirates muttered, creeping toward Daario's body – which hadn't moved. The pirate got uncomfortably close before Daario rolled over and coughed up half the _Jade Sea_. He was left with the putrid taste of seaweed, cracked lips from the salt and a fucking heart attack.

_Viserion_ casually circled the ship a few more times, chirping proudly before landing on its bird's nest causing the watchman to duck frantically into the small wooden basket while the creature settled in above.

Daario used the hilt of the sword to clamber to his feet. He leaned heavily on it, gritting his teeth at the rush of agony from his joints. Eventually he turned and held up a filthy _Ghiscari_ gesture to the dragon. _Viserion_ misinterpreted this as 'praise' and chirped again, bowing his golden head. He had a new crest of horns emerging while the spines on his back had taken on a sinister curve.

The pirate queen appeared from below deck to join the crew.

“Hell on the fifteen seas – what is this noise?!” If she was surprised to see the sell-sword slave alive after watching his spectacular plummet into the harbour earlier, she hid it well and met him with her standard air of distaste. Wrapped in her lurid furs, she loomed over Daario. “Whitewash is dead,” she added sharply. “Your dragon pulled his pieces from the harbour and fed on them. I was fond of Whitewash.”

“He's a dragon,” Daario explained, as he tugged the sword from the ship's deck. In the daylight it was more beautiful. He'd seen Valyrian steel during battle. Up close it was divine, a metal of the gods, he was sure. He noticed the pirate queen's attention linger. It was treasure and her kind lusted after trinkets. “They see only the meat and they've no manners.” Daario continued honestly, before the pirate queen held out her hand for the jewelled sword. Daario laughed. “This one's mine, I think.”

“Slaves do not have possessions,” she replied firmly. With the slightest nod of her head, the rest of the pirates armed themselves and closed in on Daario. The whiff of rum was more threatening than the collection of thieves weighed down with pockets of gold.

“Come on now, I thought we were getting along?” Daario said, lifting his sword slightly. “We had plans, you and I. Your fleet has a belly full of gold and we're sailing toward a good fight with plenty of spoils and a licence to thieve if my queen is victorious. What do you want with one more sword?”

“And we will do great things, slave,” she agreed, “I'll even give you a sword but _that one_ is mine.”

“You can't have the sword,” Daario insisted. “I nearly died for this thing.”

“You may die for it still.” The pirate queen undid the bone clasp on her shawl and let it fall to the ship's deck. Her lean, muscular limbs flexed. Her sword was a bastard, not quite a greatsword but in her hands it was spun through the air as a common longsword.

Daario needed two hands to lift the Valyrian greatsword. The rubies on its hilt shone making it appear more a jewel than an instrument of death. The crowd of pirates cheered as their blades met. Sparks tore off the pirate's blade, showering the deck as Daario was overpowered and pushed backwards, stumbling from her strength.

“You shall be bits for your dragon, slave...” The pirate queen assured him.

The creatures from the city reached the wharves and leaped into the waves, swimming towards the escaping boats. With the weight of the dragon, their boat lagged behind. The pirate queen was coming at him again, sword spinning in her hands...

“Shit...” Daario muttered under his breath.

###  **STEPSTONES – BETWEEN THE NARROW AND SUMMER SEAS**

The cliffs surrounding their safe harbour were inhospitable. Tyrion saw them as a wave that never broke, lording over them in a frozen moment of violence. Beneath their ships, the water occasionally boiled. The _Dothraki_ thought sea monsters lived below, lazing on the ocean floor, breathing fire.

“I hear that it is common,” Varys strolled by, taking another turn of the ship's deck, “for formations such as this to have warmer waters. They are similar to the volcanoes of the East only sunken below the waves. It was probably an eruption that tore the Arm of Dorne asunder, not the mutterings of Children.”

“I love these chats,” Tyrion was perched unwisely on the rail of the ship with one hand on a rigging line. “The joke is on you, friend, for I find flirting with destruction rather arousing when there is no other fun to be had.”

“Still a lion...” Varys countered.

Tyrion was tempted to roar but his good humour was interrupted by Grey Worm stepping over the banister. Several of his commanders joined him along with Missandei, whom Tyrion could not help but notice spent more time on Grey Worm's boat than the Queen's. The weather remained still in the harbour but the storm winds roared outside making horrifying noises as they scratched at the rock walls. “Are we all ready then?”

“Grey Worm will accompany you on this journey,” Grey Worm announced, standing perfectly in line with his men. Every action was painfully formal.

“I'm afraid that would not be wise,” Tyrion replied. “You see, we need you to remain here – with the fleet.”

“Grey Worm sail to Braavos. There will be many enemies in the city of freed men.”

“That is true, I grant you but the enemies we face in Braavos are not those who wield swords. They are men of _money_ and _politics_. This is why we are leaving the Queen's fleet here. If we were to sail into the harbour of Braavos spoiling for a fight, the bronze god would open his legs and rain fire on us before we could book an appointment with the bank. The – the big statue. Above the harbour. It -” he tried to explain the famous bronze monument.

“The bank?” Grey Worm interrupted, confused by what the Westerosi men planned.

“Yes,” Varys interceded. “We are sailing to Braavos to meet bankers. It is not place for men of war. We will take a small detail of your best men for our personal protection and Missandei.”

“And the dragon?”

“Provided it does not fly off chasing birds,” said Tyrion.

“Will not a dragon anger them – these banker men?”

“Anger? No...” Tyrion assured Grey Worm. “Terrify, we hope. Braavos holds the purse strings of Westeros. With them on board with our cause we have a much better chance of a bloodless conquest.”

“There is no such thing,” Varys countered Tyrion. “Though you are right, it would reduce our losses significantly if some of the old houses raised Targaryen banners upon our arrival.”

“So you will sail to Braavos with a dragon to talk.”

“It's what we do best.” Tyrion gestured at himself, Varys and Missandei. “You stay here and if anyone that isn't us comes in through that channel, kill them. No one can know what we plan. Not yet.”

*~*~*

Tyrion watched curiously as Varys emptied a trunk full of old ship flags stolen from the _Red Keep_ and dragged across the world. They were folded into triangles, some in better condition than others. “What on earth have you got there?” he asked, humming around Varys' cabin as though he were entitled to be there. With little other conversation to find, he gravitated toward Varys – or the dragon. Actually, he'd had some rather involved, night-long conversations with the creature. He was beginning to get attached to it and every now and then he fooled himself into thinking that the dragon felt the same.

“Banners. We must change them regularly as we sail up the coast if we want to make it to Braavos in one piece. These are difficult waters.”

“Father never mentioned having any trouble importing goods to the realm.”

“No, he wouldn't because he bribed the kings and councils of the free cities – who in turn paid a wage to the pirates – who stowed illicit goods on the Lannister boats. Weren't you curious as _Master of Coin_ as to why the unexplained loss deepened at specific times of the year?”

“Curious – yes but not enough to lose my head over it. Perhaps we should fly Lannister colours and be done with it.”

“I thought of that, you know but my little birds tell me that without your father frightening and bribing the realm into submission, Lannister ships have become a target. I suspect but cannot prove that your sister's private war with the Faith Militant might have something to do with it.”

“That's Cersei, making new friends. We'll have to deal with the Faith swiftly if we find ourselves as far as King's Landing... There was a reason they were disbanded. Their love of poverty is a ruse while they play at king.”

“With any luck, your brother will slaughter them first. Ah, yes. This will do for now.” Varys unfolded the unsightly _Tyroshi_ banner _._

“It clashes with our dragon.”

Varys laughed and threw it at the lion. “Run it up to the captain.”

“ _Please_. Have you been in my company so long that you've forgotten your manners?”

*~*~*

When Missandei was on board the Queen's ship, she kept largely to her quarters. She burned incense until her cabin developed an unnatural layer of spiced smoke, rustling around her ankles. A month. An entire passage of the moon. That is how long their Queen had been missing. Rarely mentioned, the Westerosi advisors behaved as though it were part of their plan and when questioned would simply reply 'soon'. Either that was a carefully choreographed act for the benefit of the army or everyone was too frightened to consider the very real possibility that they were heading into a war of conquest without a conqueror. By some miracle if they reached _Braavos_ , no amount of talking would convince the Iron Bank to back their war without proof that the candidate for the throne was alive. Dragons would not be enough.

A soft knock at the cabin door startled her from thought. “Come,” Missandei said evenly, sitting at her only table which she'd shifted near enough to the window for natural light to fall over it. Not today. The passing islands and their towering cliffs hid the boat in shadow expect for noon. “Tyrion,” she greeted, when a golden mess of hair peered around her door.

“Our lesson,” he offered as explanation. “I was not sure if – are you well?” He shifted to concern when he saw a change in Missandei's manner. Though he was certain the woman had no tears left for the world, it was clear that she was upset.

“Apologies, come in, Lord Tyrion.”

Tyrion did his best not to choke on the smoke in case she thought him impolite. _It is the way of the East_ , he told himself. “Your lessons have been very successful. Varys says that I now sound like an idiot,” she frowned and he quickly continued, “– by which I suppose he means that I have started forming decipherable conversation.” He waited, seeing if she would smile. She did not. “That was a joke. He says I am much improved. Grey Worm and I practice on each other. He speaks Common Tongue to me and I reply in High Valyrian.” He paused again. “You miss him, I am sure.”

“Grey Worm will protect the Queen's fleet and fight bravely in defence of it, should the need arise.”

It was a peculiar circumstance for Tyrion. Until this point his relationships with women had been clearly defined. There had been a murderous sister, a string of lovers, countless whores, the odd political adversary and a distant child-wife with a famous name he barely knew. 'Friend' was not among any of the women he knew. He certainly hoped that he and Missandei were friends. “Does it trouble you that I am a Lannister?” he asked.

She remained closed off to him. “I know that a desire for revenge against your relations led you to the Queen's service but I do wonder at what will happen when the reality of slaughtering your kin dawns.”

“You have a point and normally I would agree with you. Worry not, my lady, I have already killed two of my name and been blamed for a third for which I would have gladly carried credit. Extending this service to my sister will not result in a crisis of conscience, rather there will be drinking and levity.”

“What of your brother and nephew? Killing them will not come so naturally or do you expect the Queen to spare them? Exile them perhaps? Only a foolish queen would let them live and never a Targaryen.” On this, Tyrion was quiet. “I thought as much.” The imp had suddenly become fascinated with the surface of the table. He picked at it with his claws, avoiding her eyes. For all his clever words he did not know how to reply. “Your loyalty is not what troubles me.”

He lifted his head at this. “Is it the dragon lounging on the deck? He bothers a lot of people.”

“Our Queen.”

“There is one thing I know about our Queen,” Tyrion assured her, “the gods have an eye for her survival. If she were dead, Drogon would have returned. It is why I also suspect Daario to be alive, even if Varys fights me on this point. My childhood was a lonely one and I spent most of it reading. The stories that I liked best were of dragons and there is a trait that they all have in common.”

“What is that?” she asked.

“Dragons are intelligent. Drogon will be taking care of our Queen, just as he did when he flew into the fighting pits of Meereen. Mormont is with her and we both know that he'd die protecting her – from the gods themselves if need be. Now, I'm determined that you and I shall get to know each other better. It's a long way to the Iron Throne. Your issue with me appears to be one of trust so let us play a game.”

This was not the first time that the dwarf had tried to play games with her. They usually involved drinking, of which she was not fond. Missandei immediately went to protest but he shook his head and threw both hands up in submission.

“No – no. Not that kind of a game. You can ask me any question you want and I will tell the truth. I'm an appalling liar so you'll surely have me at a disadvantage.”

“I do not understand. How is this a game?”

“Well, then in turn I get to ask you a question – only I must ask it in High Valyrian and you can only reply in kind. That way I'll have to improve my language skills if I want to get to know you better.”

“All right,” she eventually agreed. It was her turn to start. “Have you ever been in love?”

Tyrion flinched, immediately realising why this was meant to be a drinking game.

*~*~*

“Oh dear,” Varys remarked at Tyrion's state much later in the afternoon, “what happened to you?”

“Revisiting old demons. No – leave it!” he growled, when Varys relieved him of a bottle of pear brandy. “That's such a waste,” Tyrion groaned, as the bottle tumbled overboard. “Pirates of the East went to a great deal of trouble to smuggle that into Queen's stash where I rescued it.”

“Let us call it a precautionary matter. I'm in no mood for a repeat. I saw enough of your favoured crutch on the way to Meereen.”

“Believe me, if I'd known that I was about to be kidnapped and sold into slavery with an ill-tempered bear, I would have drunk more. Are we nearly out of all this rubbish?” he pointed vaguely at a passing island. The outcrops of violence weren't getting any less intimidating but they were certainly opening up to clearer waters.

“Nearly. We have no intention of sailing these waters in the dark.”

“I hope you've got your speech planned for the Iron Bank. You might have Grey Worm believing that we have half a chance but it'll take more than a dragon to sway them to our cause. They're a flock of vultures, feeding off civilisation's ruins. They're all for a good war if it pays. I doubt they'll be charmed by our parlour trick.”

“Oddly that did not escape my notice. At any rate, we are not going to the Iron Bank to ask for money like all the other contenders that have crawled begging up their steps. We're going to _offer_ it to them.”

“Are you sure _you_ haven't been on the brandy? The Queen's got some money, I grant you but nowhere near enough to buy a throne. She wouldn't be able to pay for her army if it weren't for their low expectations and unusually strong devotion.”

“We don't pay them.”

“Exactly,” Tyrion pointed at Varys, ever so slightly drunk. “We don't get paid either.” His status had never been officially changed from 'prisoner' so he wasn't about to raise the issue with her Grace. “Go on, impress me. How are you planning to make this grand bribe?”

“Upon taking the Iron Throne, which is rather likely with three dragons in tow, the queen will repay _all_ debts of the crown. I don't know what you find so funny.”

“Your imagination, mostly.”

“I assure you, there is money enough in the realm, if you know where to look for it.”

“Okay, I'll bite.” There was an extended period of silence in which Varys placed his palms on the ship's bannister beside Tyrion and looked at him rather oddly. “Why do you keep giving me these looks? I do not under-oh... My friend, you have made a fatal miscalculation. A rarity for you.”

“Have I?”

“The vaults in Casterly Rock are _empty_. It's the great Lannister lie. Purchasing the realm drained the lot. I shall have to pay my debts with kindness from now on. It's a dried up corpse of a castle.”

“Has it...” Varys didn't seem so sure. “In any case, whether there is money in Casterly Rock or not is immaterial. The _realm_ believes that it resides inside that ghastly rock and you are its rightful heir. Your family will certainly not contest the point and no one else has seen inside. Who will challenge the claim? When we present you to the Iron Bank with the promise of all the treasures of the realm, they'll at least consider our terms.”

“That's one hell of a gamble. One word to the free cities and our fleet will be sunk before we reach Westeros.”

“I'm banking on greed,” Varys assured him. “Those men have all the money in the realm and the one thing they crave beyond all else is _more_.”

“Varys, eventually we will be required to cough up the money or the bank will turn the realm swiftly against us. I think I have an idea about where we might find the gold.”

“If you're talking about robbing a bird's nest-”

“It's not really theft if all the little birds are dead.”

“That was my thinking also.” Varys agreed. “Speaking of dragons. Where did ours go?”

There was a conspicuously large void on deck usually filled with a sleeping dragon. “Hunting. I don't think he thought much of my last offering. He's growing, you know. Before we reach Westeros he'll be too large to hitch a lift.”

“I'll leave you to inform him of that. He seems rather fond of your midnight chats. Perhaps we should add the creature to the small council. We're going to need one of those.”

“Those are private conversations, Varys, between me and the dragon. You keep fussing with that – what is it?” Tyrion referred to a scrap of leather brought in by one of the saddest looking birds he'd ever seen. It wasn't even strictly a raven, more of a gnarled sea-eagle living out its retirement.

“From the North – no, not your North,” he quickly amended. “Lots of places have a North. An Ibbense merchant writes that the Shivering Sea has begun to freeze over. He's lost vessels, sunk by marauding ice drifts. On some...”

“On some _what_?”

“On some they say they have found corpses with blue eyes, still moving.”

###  **YIN – YI TI**

His forearm was about to snap. Daario could feel the pressure building against the joint. The pirate queen had him on his knees. He'd stopped a blow meant for his neck but she had height and momentum on her side and she used every breath of it to bring her sword closer to his flesh.

Daario tilted his sword, dropping his wrist slightly. The angle changed and her sword slid to the deck, slicing away another chunk of wood. He recovered, returning to his feet. Daario gripped the enormous sword with two hands, swaying it slightly from side to side, like the head of a viper. She came at him again, easily evading his counter swing. Her sword tore across his upper arm, slicing his shirt apart and leaving a curtain of blood down his skin. It rained onto the deck, mixing with the snow.

“Ow...” he admitted, risking a brief glance at the damage.

“It is not too late, slave-sword,” her knew name for him. The crew jeered every time she hissed it. “Surrender the sword and I'll chop off your head before giving you to the waves.”

“You really should be more concerned about what -” he paused, ducking under a swipe, “- swims toward you out of the city.”

The pirate queen foolishly decided to ignore Daario's warning, lunging at him instead. Her action found his sword. Another shower of sparks covered Daario, staining the air with a burned stench. Once more. Parry. Duck. Sparks. She was relentless. The sheer weight of the elegant greatsword was tiring his injured limbs. A particularly vicious exchanged nearly dislodged it from his hold entirely.

“Up. Again.” She screeched at him, strutting across the deck to the cheers of her crew. This time something in the water caught her attention. There were bodies swimming toward them. For a moment, she turned away. “That pretty sword is too big for you,” she added, watching the slave-sword groan at a fresh wound on his leg. “It was made for some great Westerosi knight. How many pieces would you like to be in?”

“I'm best served as a main,” Daario insisted, falling against the mast. This time he was glad of the solid wood at his back. At least it prevented him from collapsing on the deck in a pile of bones. _Viserion_ watched from above. His tail was wrapped around the iron wood while his claws eagerly scratched through some of the rigging lines. Every now and then one of the sails blew over the crowd, running wild with only a single guide rope left tethering it to the ship. Their boat was paralysed. So, too was Daario.

“It is a lovely sword, don't you think? Like a beautiful woman. I've always had a fondness for a well made piece of steel.” Daario panted. The pirate queen shifted her stance, gripping her blade with intent. “Ah... is the afternoon entertainment coming to an end?” he asked.

Daario held his sword by the blade, inspecting the handle. If he was going to die anyway, he'd rather get a good look at the item that caused it.

“This is the lost Lannister sword,” he continued to explain. “There are a few Lannisters left in the world. You'll fetch no finer price than at their door, that much I swear is true. Go on then, I'd rather you do it than the creatures about to board the ship.”

Snow thickened in the air. The rolling clouds cleared the mountain range and brought with them a true chill to the air. They blocked out the sun, casting a sudden shadow over the deck. It was as though the world held its breath while the pirate queen lifted her sword.

“ _What is dead many never die...”_

Daario was startled to hear his house words from her lips. The blade sang in the air. A hideous _crunch._ The ship's mast snapped under the weight of the dragon. It foundations ripped out of the deck as it fell across the boat, annihilating anything below. Daario, who'd been leaning on it, veered sharply. The pirate queen missed. The force of the failed swing knocked her to her knees. Daario gripped his sword, the blade still in his hands, spun... The sails collapsed on water and ship alike with a drowning thunder. Daario plunged his sword into her back.

It was not enough to kill her. Furiously, the pirate queen ripped out the sword and smashed Daario across the face with the jewelled hilt. _Viserion_ crashed onto the front of the ship, destroying the bow and rails. The ship lurched sharply out of the water, tumbling everybody over the deck. He opened his enormous jaws and coughed a surprised spray of fire across the ship. Daario and the queen ducked under the intense heat. It was not normal fire – it was _dragon fire_ and it melted the metal fastenings on what remained of the mast and burned the wood straight into a steaming charcoal corpse. The rest of the ship caught alight and the crew panicked. They lined the deck, frantically waving down a nearby vessel which approached to rescue them.

Daario scrambled for the sword. The queen did the same for hers. She was first, landing on Daario's chest with her knee pinning his arm to the deck.

“A slave cannot kill a queen,” she hissed at him. “You have a dragon – I have a sword at your throat.”

“Do you want to know what I have?” Daario whispered. The steel cut into the first layer of his throat, tempting him with death. He could only smile in the face of it. “Luck.”

Daario had hold of a burning piece of bannister. It was a two foot solid club of wood which he crashed against her skull, breaking the pirate queen's well-cut jaw. Her crew were scattered over the ship, racing to rescue jewels and flee to another boat that had pulled along side, tossing ropes and laying planks. With the flames rising around them, Daario calmly collected his sword. He returned to the queen, standing over her writhing body. “You should have taken my offer. It was fair.”

He separated her head with a single motion – before being thrown from his feet as part of the cabin exploded behind him.

###  **GRIFFIN'S PEAK - ASSHAI**

Quaithe and the merchant drank milkwood tea together. They were in a favourite tavern of his, run by a sailor that became famously marooned in _Asshai_ when he could not afford the passage home. What this curious corner of the city had been before was a mystery glimpsed only through the monstrous reliefs on every wall. Everyone called it, _Griffin's Peak_ for the headless statue guarding the door. The feet, wings, tail and causally reclined statue suggested it had once been a fearsome griffin. It was a place populated by travellers rather than the withdrawn, cloaked natives of the city. They shied away from the noise and drink making it the safest place in _Asshai_.

“Did they do a deal with you?”

The merchant withdrew from his companion when she repeated her question. Her suspicion irritated him. “Deal with _whom_?”

“Wreab, we could play these games all day but we know how this going to end.”

“Yeah, with you pullin' that crazy mind shit on me again. I ain' never been right after tha'.”

“What I gave you in error was a gift,” Quaithe insisted. “A blindness to enchantments is what allowed you to prosper here and you know it.”

“Maybe but the truth isn't pretty. That creature with the silver woman is not something anyone would want to look on. People they come here and they think this place is a terror from their dreams – yet they don't know the half of it.”

Later, when the volume of traders in the tavern swelled and Wreab had drunk his fill of milkwood, his mind loosened and he revealed that he had, indeed been approached.

“Volantis?” Quaithe was surprised to hear that. She had expected the masters from _Slaver's Bay_ or one of the remaining Lannisters to conspire against her family. “What do they want with a Targaryen?”

“The Old Valyrians remain inside the black wall of Volantis, shut away for centuries. She has upset them, dishonoured all that their once great empire breathed for. At the very least, I think they want to meet her.”

“Kill her, you mean.”

“Maybe, maybe not – she remains their blood and a mother to dragons, no less. I doubt they mean to kill her.”

Quaithe had been to _Volantis_ but never inside those walls. She could only guess and what remained of the Targaryens that lived within them, hiding from the world. Were they shadow, like her? “Have you been beyond those walls?” He did not confirm it but his eyes said yes. “Can you get me inside them?”

“I didn't say yes. Besides, you've got a bigger problem. What are you going to do with the shadow binder?”

“Don't worry about the shadow binder.” Quaithe relaxed back in her chair and poured more milkwood tea. The glasses shook with a distant rumble as another nearby mountain erupted. “I think I have a way for you to get your money after all.”

“Would be a fuckin' miracle if you did.”

 


	34. When The Raven Sings

 

 

###  **TEMPLE OF THE PALE LION - ASSHAI**

Ser Jorah Mormont growled, clutching his side as he slid down the white-wood door into swearing pile of mirth. His amusement was at irony. What form of deranged gods ruled them? Did they sit around Northern hearths in cities built of ice and watch the realms of men tumble into the fighting pits? The gods were in for a fucking surprise. Occasionally those cursed things crawled out of the depths to revel in the chaos. On their lips were songs to waken the dead. In their hands, swords that clashed to the sound of thunder.

Jorah's hand found the flesh between his ribs. It was smooth. Phantom urges – memories of pain. That is all they were. He had to banish them from his mind.

_Back on your feet,_ he told himself. Is that not what his father had said every time the lance threw him from horseback?  _“We may be poor of coin but we have wealth of honour.”_ Those were the lessons Jorah remembered. They were lectures that served to fold his guilt ten times over. He had betrayed honour for gold – for love. No. The shadow of love.  _On your feet._

On his feet, Jorah stumbled to the table. The ice-weapon lay across the barren stone, waiting. He eyed it as a stranger. For the first time he truly appreciated its impossible construction. What a curious thing. His thumb brushed the ice and immediately withdrew with a sharp hiss from his lips as it burned the flesh with an intense cold. He had not witnessed any propensity to melt, even thrust within a flame. Only magic could bind such a thing against the laws of the world. The wrappings themselves were nothing but old straps of leather, much like what Jorah tied around his wrists and arms. There was nothing special in them except to serve as a handle. Jorah unwound a length of leather from his arm and added it to the frozen blade.

“I wonder who owned you...” he whispered to the sword. “You were made beyond The Wall, that much I understand. Nothing good comes from there.”

Jorah regarded the weapon curiously, as though it plotted betrayal.  _Yes_ , he was a Northern man but he served the Queen of fire. What would the gods make of him?

_Nothing, if Quaithe does not return..._

The silence was oppressive. His narrow, high-ceilinged cell of rock offered nothing. No light. No sound. No warmth. It was a void, like the rest of  _Asshai_ . The stories were true, this was a place of dead and sleeping things. Perhaps the whole city was waiting at the edge of the world for night to fall. Jorah wondered then what things may creep out of the hills and waters.

“I am going to call you _Snowflake_ ,” he teased the sword, daring it to disobey. “Because I wager your allegiance is flaky and melts with the first breath of ocean wind.”

The ground trembled restlessly underfoot. He wondered if something other than fire awakened the night Daenerys birthed her dragons. Or was it always this way at  _Asshai_ ? Were they navigating the embers of the world with a great fire beneath them? “Don't you dare,” he warned the mountains, “not yet. I am not through with this city. When I am, you can 'ave her. Lay down your fire – boil the poisoned river – beset the land with darkness, I do not care.”

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

The little raven tumbled through the snow – picked up, tossed about and discarded by the fierce winter winds laying siege to the valley.

“ _Shraw! Shraw!”_ A man cloaked in soft snow fox fur called to it, holding out his arm.

The bird fought against the weather until its sharp claws hooked into the safety of his cloak. The man drew it close, protecting the tiny creature which chattered softly at the sudden warmth.

Littlefinger brought the bird into the tent. It was lit by a dozen fires and lined with sheepskin mats to keep the ice floor at bay. Inside, several of the recently pledged houses were in discussion with his generals. Nervous, they kept their battle armour on and their swords rested on the floor nearby. The shuffle of horses and smell of ruin lingered in the tent. This is what a clean slate looked like. When there was nothing to fight for but the promise of a future and that promise perched at the head of the table drinking wine, staring blankly through the crack in the coverings toward the snow, lost in reverie.

Petyr carefully claimed the chair at the opposite end to Sansa, letting the bird hop onto the surface. He turned a blind eye as it pulled apart a piece of bread, scattering crumbs as though they were snow, thrashing it against the wood with a succession of distractingly violent movements _._

The note it carried was quickly unravelled. It was a short message but the moment Petyr lingered over the words he understood that they would change the course of their world. The board had been flipped over and a new game was afoot. The squabbles of lords meant nothing if death was open to bargain.

“Your Grace,” he began softly, using Sansa's new style. As Queen in the North he was careful to build her up as a regal figure – one that the entire North could rally behind. All he had to do was make them _believe_ that she was queen and it would be so. Men were fickle and she was beautiful.

Sansa shifted her gaze to him but a veil of glass was cast over her eyes, “Yes, Lord Baelish?”

“Word from the North,” he replied, sliding the parchment across the table to her. Petyr noticed the dark bruises on her hands and made a vow that should he come across the man that gave her those, that man would no longer _have hands_.

She read the words and remained impassive. Sansa was an unusual creation to look on with skin pale as the winter snows framed in softly curled hair, the colour of dawn. Catelyn had been fair, of that there was no doubt but she was a Riverlands woman to the core. Sansa was something different. Fierce. Stark blood ran through her veins and as much as Petyr resented Eddard for all that he had done, it was his line that gave Sansa a sharpness – an edge of ice – that he could not regret. Sometimes, when Petyr contemplated her, he wondered if she were real at all.

“Your Grace?” he pressed gently, followed by a cautious, “Sansa...”

“My brother is alive. He was dead and then he was alive again. Which do I believe? Both? The gods play carelessly. I dare not hope until I see his face.”

“Your brother is alive,” Littlefinger assured her. “The whispers of the Night's Watch are famously true. They say he rides to Winterfell to expel the Boltons. We must ride to greet him, show him that Winterfell is won but the North hangs in the balance. I will call on young Lord Arryn to summon the remainder of the Veil's army. Together, we have enough men to take the Dreadfort and remove the Bolton stain from the North. Peace, your Grace. When we are done, we shall return to Winterfell and rebuild your home. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Now there will be two.”

Sansa's eyes were cold and clear – tainted with more sorrow than her years could bear. “And when they are dead,” she whispered firmly, fixing those eyes on him, “I will watch them turn to smoke. I want the torture chambers in the Dreadfort taken apart – the place where my ancestors hung, skinless and rotting, destroyed. Evil like that will never be allowed to nest in these lands again. Not while I am queen. The Boltons will be dismantled.”

“Of course,” he swore. “It will be as you wish.”

“How many more joined us today?”

“Five more lords,” he replied, nodding at the men in the corner. “Word is spreading. Shall I send ravens to your brother?”

Sansa nodded. Then she left the tent in a rustle similar to the wind in the pines. Petyr's heart followed but his body remained, scratching out a letter to the Night's Watch.

The snow fell heavy as Sansa approached the ruins of  _Winterfell_ . They no longer smouldered and the stone had grown cold. She was glad for the fires. What the Boltons soiled had now been cleansed. Their vile occupation would be forgotten. It had been built once, it could be built again. She was not afraid of  _Winterfell_ becoming something new. All great things had a first day in the sun. Instead it was the godwood that left her mournful. The Weirwood, with all its crying bowers under which she'd been married and crowned, thickened with the cold. It relished the bitter flow of ice and the extended nights. Sansa remembered the stories Old Nan had spun about the trees. Shrivelled men living in the wood. Bleeding eyes. The whispers of Children. What had Jon seen while he was dead? Did he hear Old Nan's whispers again?

*~*~*

“My Lord...”

Littlefinger's peace was disturbed by a rider throwing the sides of the tent violently apart before stumbling in, shedding snow all over the floor. He was breathless from travel and smelled strongly of the road. His clothes were not made for winter and beneath a few hasty layers of wool he glimpsed a golden lion. “What is so urgent?”

“News,” he presented a sealed envelope with a Baratheon mark in wax. “From the Crown. They have heard of the Boltons' unlawful expulsion from Winterfell. I am to await your immediate reply and return to the capital.”

“Wait in the blue tent,” Littlefinger waved him off, “you'll be offered wine and food. Harks, escort this man over there, would you? See that he has what he requires.”

The Boltons had Crown favour, the Starks did not and while Petyr was not technically the cause of current events, Littlefinger suspected that his presence might be enough to incite Cersei into aggression. Time to test his fortifications... Lacking the resources to march an army North, the Crown could not hope to protect the Boltons with anything other than words. Cersei was busy chasing Sparrows. The Hightowers were last seen amassing at the boarder near  _King's Landing_ for war games. The only pieces that mattered were in the North. Would the old houses answer the beck and call of the Crown or were Northerners beginning to realise that their true strength lay with each other?  _The North remembers..._ Catelyn used to say.  _Set in their ways._ He was counting on it.

_Dragons, they say, care neither for blood nor title. The creature that slept beneath Winterfell castle and fed on the incumbent Boltons had no quarrel with your crown. Happily, from the ashes of fate, your aunt by marriage survives. Sansa Lannister holds the North and all the houses from the Riverlands to The Wall raise wolf banners. The Veil watches over your kin._

###  **PINK CLIFF PORT – BLAZEWATER BAY**

Theon Greyjoy pulled on the reigns of his horse, stopping as its hooves sank into the loose, pastel rocks of the crescent shoreline. Sunset. To his left, the enormous silhouette of the sun lay half-sunk in the warm waters of the _Sunset Sea_. Ahead rose the chalk cliffs. Like mirrors, they reflected the colour of the sky which usually turned them a bastard red. A scattering of peaceful buildings grew in the rubble below with the longest jetty in the known world stretching into the shallow water for hundreds of metres. Toward the end, boats rocked against their moorings and a few lone figures wandered the weathered pine boards that formed its ancient foundation.

He would gladly live out his days tending those boats. Walking the beach. Scaling a fresh catch for a few coins. Thatching the roof on the tavern which had sloped to one side with the shifting sand beneath its holdings. A few lanterns hung from the walls, blazing in the half light like weary stars. Theon smiled.

“Come on...” he patted the neck of his horse gently. Theon would need to bargain the poor companion for a short passage South. The _Iron Islands_ lay around the curve of the bay. _Home._ He was so close. The water smelled of storms, smoke and salt – all the things he yearned for.

###  **THE NARROW SEA**

Varys rested against the Eastern rail of the ship. Tyrion lingered on the opposing Western edge. Both of them watched the waves. The _Narrow Sea_ was deep with strong currents that gave its water a dark, unfriendly appearance – or perhaps it was all the blood swelling in the depths. They were between two cities, _Pentos_ and _King's Landing_. Varys thought of old friends. Of promises and dreams. Tyrion reflected what had been and what could be again.

Without the dragon, the sailors scampered over the deck, unravelling fresh sails so that they made good speed, changing their banners temporarily to the star of _Pentos_. A few hours later, one of them shouted, catching a flicker of a watchman's glass on the horizon to the East. Varys caught it too. In a peculiar action, he managed to climb a small rise of rigging and stand on the bannister. The winds caught his robes, billowing them behind as if they were restless, deformed wings.

A merchant ship approached. It sailed light, lifted out of the water to bare a tide mark of barnacles, gaining on them fast.

“Are they sailing for us?” Tyrion asked, loitering below Varys.

“I believe they are. We cannot outrun them. It would be suspicious to try besides, we have little provision for war.”

“Perhaps they wish to trade with us?”

“Or steal. As I said, pirates are common in these waters. Everyone is a mummer here, hiding beneath lies.”

“Well, if they are pirates they'll be sorely disappointed,” Tyrion remarked, with an air of amusement. “A dwarf, two dozen eunuchs and a menagerie of ravens. It's not exactly going to fit into their dreams of endless finery.”

“Quite.” All the same, Varys disappeared below deck, retiring to his cabin while Tyrion remained for a time, watching the vessel creep closer. He found the water peaceful, even it floated chaos toward him. Anything was better than the endless sand dunes of the East and the sticky heat.

Tyrion waved one of the Unsullied commanders over. “Maybe it is better to keep your men below deck,” he said to the rigid figure, “for now at least. No need to provoke whispers. I shall join you.” When the Unsullied warrior tilted his head in confusion, Tyrion explained, “Blonde haired dwarves are a conspicuous payload in these waters.” He assumed that his sister was still dangling a filthy sum of money over his head. Her spies were everywhere.

Hours later, Missandei and Varys waited on deck for their guests. The merchant vessel leered so close that from his porthole, Tyrion could hear the waves slapping against the hull. A tall, red-clad figure lingered at the head of the ship. He bowed and though Tyrion could not see, Varys bowed in turn.

Illyrio...

*~*~*

“I heard a mad rumour that you were sailing with a dragon – though I admit, I had assumed that to be a metaphor.” Illyrio eyed the ship's deck. It bore suspicious scratches on every surface, chew marks at the base of the mast but no dragon. “Or am I mistaken entirely?”

“Oh, my friend...” Varys assured him warmly, lifting his arm to encourage him to follow, “...there is a dragon. Share some wine – you may yet meet him.”

The boats were lashed together with rope and a flimsy plank. As the sun rolled into the waves, the crews mingled. Wine was brought up from the depths of Illyrio's ship along with herbs grown in desert quartz. Smoke followed and Tyrion found himself in a pleasurable haze, introducing himself to the merchant.

“Tell me,” Illyrio asked the dwarf, “how does Tywin's son come to be in the service of a Targaryen?”

Tyrion waved the colourful merchant off en-route to his glass. “Complicated. Very complicated. There was murder and drinking and marriage – slavery, champions, whoring, kidnapping...”

Varys watched as Tyrion sank further into his glass before cutting him off, “I locked him in a small crate and sent him to the other side of the world. It was the great Queen Daenerys Targaryen or an illustrious future in Meereen's fighting pits.”

Illyrio was deeply amused, twisting his long beard idly between rough fingers. “Wise choice, my new friend. Fate is a cunt. More wine?”

“Fuck the gods. Bring the wine!” Tyrion lifted his glass hopefully.

“I shall help you,” Varys added, standing with Illyrio. The pair of them left together, moving to Illyrio's vessel to retrieve a crate that contained something more precious than wine.

It was quiet away from the drinking. The party became a mute rumble and Varys paused to appreciate a silver trail left on the water by the moon.

“Such odd friends you've made,” Illyrio added, when they were alone in his cabin. It was nothing like the Queen's ship. Illyrio lived aboard this boat for much of is life and had the inside painted lurid colours to serve as relief from the endless palette of blue outside.

“I have made them carefully,” Varys assured the other man.

“The dark girl does not talk.”

“Missandei has spent most of her life observing the endless prattle of men. I doubt she hears us speak at all. Now – did you bring it as I asked?”

“Of course I brought it,” Illyrio heaved the crate into the middle of the floor. He took a hooked bar from the wall and levered it open. An old chest sat inside, untouched since the day Varys had willed it in his old friend's care. “It has been a long time. I was not sure you were ever coming back for it.”

“I have a long memory.” Varys knelt beside the crate and dipped his hands inside, running them tentatively over the leather surface of the trunk as though this were an old friend raised from the dead. “From the beginning, you and I knew this would be a long game.”

“That we did. Is it true about the boy?” Varys simply nodded. “That is unfortunate.”

“He was not the boy you knew, Illyrio. The world made him cruel and he shared that cruelty. We did not come this far to put a tyrant on the throne. I've had my fill of screaming children.”

“That is exactly the boy I knew – a child who sold his sister as easily as a horse. I hear whispers too,” Illyrio stepped closer to Varys, as the other man stood. They were both older now. The foolish dreams they'd shared a lifetime ago had manifested into tangible futures. “She is a butcher. A conflicted one but there is fire in her blood.”

“Just enough, I hope,” Varys replied, with a sudden flicker of darkness. “Peace is purchased with blood.”

“All your birds are dying,” Illyrio warned. “You have sacrificed your greatest power in order to pursue this will of yours.”

“Ours...” Varys corrected. “And do not worry about my birds. That is the simple joy in them – they come in flocks at the first sight of bread.”

“All the same...” They were interrupted by a flurry of screams and heavy swoop of a dragon's wings.

###  **TEMPLE OF THE PALE LION - ASSHAI**

_Daenerys approached a delicate pile of broken feathers in the snow. They were half frozen into cleave of ice. She knelt beside the creature with the freezing ground stinging her bare skin, wondering how long its body had been entombed. Centuries. A thousand years. Ten thousand..._

_It moved._

_She startled, falling back into the snow. A hideous croak came from within its throat as it twisted and bucked against the remaining frost. It turned its head. Daenerys saw three swollen eyes, tearing through her soul. Screaming in the dark. There were no words. It was the cracking of ice. The fell of cliffs. The roar of the ocean upon the shore. A song of ice._

The green fire twisted around Daenerys' body, pinning her against the wall. She flexed, fighting against its grip but the magic of the temple was feeding off her. She glimpsed the room for a moment and the shadow watching on. Quaithe? No. Not Quaithe. The vision of Quaithe rippled like a desert mirage revealing what lay underneath.

_Snow again. Always snow. The three-eyed raven perched on her shoulder. In front of them, a wolf tumbled with a silver lion. The two lashed out at each other, growling and rolling with claws and fangs. Blood stained the white expanse until a black bear ambled from a cluster of lonely pines. The lion lifted its head. Then there were three fighting in the snow, like the ravens eyes. Daenerys watched impassively, no longer part of their world._

*~*~*

Jorah had not exactly meant to break through the door but by some act of chance he'd managed to snap the hinges and now found himself spying into an empty corridor. Caves. That's what _Asshai_ reminded him of. Windows would make no difference. The sun did not play in these parts of the world. It had sunk away, turning its back on the foul nest of creatures – leaving them to the mercy of the mountains.

With _Snowflake_ strapped to his back, Jorah slung a dark robe over himself, pulled the hood down and escaped the room. He moved as the others did – a shadow falling over the walls. He held his breath as the first set of footsteps approached but the sorcerers were too deep in broken Valyrian to notice him, discussing the ash clouds lingering over the city. He waited until they passed and then continued. The corridor was lined with doors exactly like his with no defining features. They reminded him of faceless men, recurring, endemic malignancy repeated over and over.

Jorah paused as the ground underfoot changed. There was an expanse of gold beneath his feet, etched with a map of the stars. On instinct he retreated, stepping off the beautiful creation. Whoever built it was long dead, along with their empire. He wondered that men could build such things _and then forget_.

He found more hooded creatures within, moving as packs in and out of hallways that cut a dizzying network through the temple. He took the widest, latching onto a group, keeping a few paces behind. Jorah ignored the withered hands nailed to the walls that glowed in place of torches and paid no attention to one wall decorated entirely with children's skulls. A filthy mist crept in and soon it thickened around his ankles. His hallway finished abruptly in a wide, oval room with an enormous white lion statue at its heart. The mist was sinking in from a hole in the roof. It mixed with flecks of ash that had started to fall.

Jorah was dwarfed by the statue. He could not help but move towards it. Blood dripped from its eyes, as though it were crying at a moon that would never rise where it could see. A lion of night, imprisoned in the darkness, waiting for the dawn. The _Dothraki_ sang songs about the pale mare, galloping on a bed of ghost grass, fleeing the night. He'd nodded off by a dozen camp fires to those tales.

The walls were made of slick, melted stone that seemed to have frozen into impossible, grotesque forms. One of them appeared as the howling mouth of some blind sea creature that also served as a door. Jorah left the statue and stepped through this abomination of stone, casting it a wary glance as he cleared the jaws. Immediately he found himself surrounded by a veneer of dragonglass. He reached out, laying his hand against the cool surface. This place was not made by man – how could it be? It had been coughed up by an inferno at the dawn of the world. Perhaps it was a glimmer of the hell that awaited him.

There were no more hooded figures. Jorah found himself alone, wandering with only the faint reflection of himself to keep him company. A hallway of ghosts – all of them _him_.

It was sudden. The passage ended where the night began. He was outside, confronted with a vision of _Asshai_. Only with the city laid out below did Jorah realise that the temple was elevated, pushed out of a mountain. It was covered in ugly spires twisted into points that resembled spines. Roughly domed, it had a view on all sides and below, an endless trail of people wandered up the black steps toward it.

They were a long way from the mountains. He felt their rumblings through the rock but aside from a faint hue of orange in the sky and a cloud of soot above, they were well out of reach. The black harbour lay to his left and beyond that – _Westeros._

So why were his eyes drawn East?

The green glow of _Ash River_ meandered toward the shadow of mountains. Forbidden cities lay on the other side. Abominations of life. Magic gone mad. He should not look upon it at all.

Jorah was tugged sharply to one side. A small, bony hand dug into his flesh. Quaithe hissed furiously at him in Valyrian, dragging him back into the temple.

“All right! All right!” Jorah tried to unlatch her but Quaithe was stronger than she looked.

“ _Fool! You cannot walk these halls alone!”_ she continued in Valyrian.

The shadow binder threw him against the inside of the tunnel so hard that he felt  _Snowflake_ dig into his spine.  _“Quaithe – stop – I understand.”_

“ _You could not possibly understand.”_

*~*~*

_Daenerys followed the raven. It sang. Mournful, soft whispers. Ducking under pine branches misshapen from the snow, pausing on protrusions of black rock jutting out of the ice. She followed until the snow was littered with bones and rotting corpses. There was a field of them, laying in the sun. Beyond, the raven swooped into a cavern. She followed. Consumed by the darkness. The raven was caught in a tangle of roots. They tightened around the tiny bird. Snapping its wing. Tearing its feathers. Strangling the life from its throat._

 


	35. Asshai By The Shadow

 

###  **ASSHAI**

The _Ash River_ was a construct of filth. Bodies drifted under the surface. The green luminescence of the water brought their tortured features alive. Those with eyes stared mutely, ferried with the tide. Beneath the corpses moved the blind, reptilian cousins of dragons, scratching at the bedrock as they propelled themselves, stomachs first against the sharp rocks. Their blood mixed with the water, poisoning it.

Jorah covered his face with the cloth hood to keep the stench from suffocating him. Quaithe led him along the water's edge and over an ungainly stone bridge to the other side of the city. The river widened as they neared the harbour and its impassive black waters. Where they met, eerie swirls of green washed out toward the East, fading. The ships that Jorah longed for sat in the harbour, lashed to jetties tilting awkwardly toward surface. He stumbled on stray pumice which constantly collected in the streets, kept to the edges by the shuffle of feet. Ash fell around them, tumbling like snow. Jorah lifted his head to look upon the anguished sky.

Quaithe brought him to an ancient building. Its entrance formed a gaping mouth with a hundred dragonglass teeth, melted and polished into curved nightmares that dangled overhead. At first Jorah thought that it was made in the image of a dragon but on the edges of the building he noticed fins instead of wings and a fish tail curl across the city street and fuse into the its neighbour.

They climbed the steps and passed into the building's throat.

“ _What is this place?”_ Jorah murmured against her ear.

“ _The safest place for you,”_ Quaithe replied. _“Do as I say if you want to survive.”_

“ _Safe? I have no interest. Where is Dae-”_

“ _Speak that name again and I shall throw you into the sea...”_ Quaithe was afraid. Even beneath the mask her eyes faltered. It was not safe to speak of dragons or kings. _“Trust...”_ she implored him, taking his hand. _“This, you must learn.”_

The building was an empty shell except for a small congregation of old women, hunched over buckets, cleaning the glass floors. Their mouths were sewn closed and their eyes milked over. “You intend to leave me here?” Jorah stepped after Quaithe, when she turned from him. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Stay.” Quaithe was firm, raising her hand to him as though he were some captured animal. “Do not leave these walls. I will return with your queen. The runes on your skin make you hard to track but the whole city can smell you and they will come. You have spent too long in the company of dragons.”

“I intend to help.”

“Help by staying here. I cannot protect you both.”

Jorah was left to the company of the blind women. If they were aware of his presence they paid him no attention. They kept to the glass floors, washing them lovingly. He wandered through the small building. It was different to the other place. There was no malice in the air or filthy words whispered in corners. Instead it reminded him of the unknown monuments in the North, stuck out of the hillsides built by fuck-knows-what. Those were silent. Calm. Northern men travelled for weeks simply to sit at their feet and listen to the past.

He knelt in front of a wall of glass. Behind, flames flickered but they were far away and fragile, their magic nearly quelled by time. Jorah closed his eyes. Something soft touched the ground beside him. One of the old woman had laid a book before him. She carried a candle, for his benefit not hers.

“Forgive me, I do not understand,” he uttered uselessly. She forced the candle into his hand and then left to clean the floor with the others.

Jorah laid his hand on the book's cover. What had once been leather now hardened to stone. There were jewels embedded in the surface but _Asshai_ and all its filth had sucked the life from them leaving only colourless stones weakly glinting in the candlelight. He set the brass candle holder on the floor. It clashed with the stone, echoing off the walls in warning. Jorah paused but the women were deaf.

Carefully, he unlatched the steel clasps holding the cover closed and opened the book. It creaked with age, fraying at every edge. Jorah was gentle, slowly lowering the cover to the floor. Flipping by a few cursory blank pages, Jorah came upon its first words and found that he could not read them. Instead of letters, pictures spelled out phrases. He'd seen similar text on the trade ships from _Yi Ti_ but this was older still. He continued on, page after page. Whatever secrets the book held, Jorah could not decipher them.

He frowned when he found sheets of leather mixed with the parchment. He opened to the middle and there, across one piece of thin, tanned hide, was a map of the world. He lifted his gaze to the room, almost expecting to be set up on by the gods themselves for witnessing such a thing. It was like no map he, or anyone else, had ever seen. He recognised _Westeros_ , even the tiny dot of his home floating in the bay but down, at the Southern end of the continent, _Dorne_ curved up and latched onto _Essos_. _Valyria_ was a mess of mountain ranges with one thin ridge running far south where it met _Sothoryos_ , dividing the _Summer_ and _Sunset_ seas. In the North, _The Thousand Islands_ were replaced by a beautiful, dense forest of pines through which sprawled a city as large as _Great Moraq_. It was protected from _The Shivering Sea_ by the tallest ranges in the world. All of this was unremarkable compared to the regions of the world forgotten by time...

They lived, died, warred and loved in a tiny corner. The true South dwarfed the known world. A circular sea boiled at its centre ringed by cities no man could reach except on the back of a dragon. Then there was the North. Gods. To think he had lived his life on the edge of this... He was a drop of blood, balanced on a blade. They knew _nothing_.

###  **TEMPLE OF THE PALE LION - ASSHAI**

The roaring green fire vanished. Daenerys tumbled from the temple wall and smashed onto the floor, shattering part of it. Dazed, she felt warm blood dripping from her forehead. Her hands slid over the glass, pushing herself away from the surface. Without the fire, the room was pitch. All she knew was the cold ground beneath her hands and the dribble of blood.

_Drip. Drip. Drip. Scratch._

A match was struck.

Light erupted in a tiny ball. It was lowered to a wick that caught. The woman calling herself Quaithe re-lit the candles on the floor. Calmly, whomever it was, blew out the match.

“Who are you?” Daenerys asked, sitting. The tatters of her clothes barely kept together. “How long have I been here?” No answer. “Where is Quaithe?” Could it speak?

Blood flooded her eye, blinding her. Daenerys wiped it away furiously. Her last vision was burned into her mind. The magic of the wall had gone too far. What she had seen the gods had not intended. She'd felt it... The moment her mind had reached into the roots held captive in the glass and _taken_ . Now she knew. The truth changed everything _and nothing_. Her skin felt cold. Daenerys crawled back to lay against the wall. A morbid laugh touched her lips as she watched the shadow creature linger in the half light.

“You are afraid of me...” she realised. “That is wise. Those who do not fear me usually die screaming.”

A match. Fire. Smoke.

“Glamouring...” Daenerys pointed to the woman that wore Quaithe's face. “That's what I've heard this called. It – ripples...” she made her hand waver with her words. “You are shadows and I am fire.”

The deep cut on her forehead stung and leaked a fresh sweep of blood across her face. Daenerys let it fall until she too wore a mask. Slowly, she used the wall to return to her feet. The figure between her and the door dropped the box of matches.

“I am going to leave now,” Daenerys informed the stranger. When she took her first step toward the door, the shadow binder lifted her arms and with them, the candles at their feet spread into a low wall of restless fire. Daenerys laughed. Pyromancers had no business threatening her. She stepped into the flame and let them lick at her clothes. They burned away. The silver queen did nothing, basking like the bastard sea creatures on the fire rocks at the bottom of the harbour. Suddenly she reached forward, grabbing hold of the pyromancer's robes. The surprised woman let out a cry as she was pulled into the flames. They caught alight, twisting and burning in Daenerys grasp. When they were dead Daenerys let them fall then stepped over them, out of the flames wearing nothing but blood.

*~*~*

Quaithe heard the screams first. A flaming body threw themselves out of the temple doors. In a writhing panic, it flailed toward the black cliff where the building perched and fell from the edge. The fire burned brighter as it approached the _Ash River_. Quaithe turned away as the waters took them. Another emerged – then another followed by a crowd of hooded figures. They poured out of temple, scattering into the darkness.

No...

She took the narrow path, entering the temple from the malformed cliff. Inside it was a shrine to terror. There were voices ricocheting off the walls, desperate spells and wails of death. Of all the murderous things to call _Asshai_ home, Quaithe had never witnessed such terror inside its walls.

Quaithe rounded a corner and fell to her knees. The silver Targaryen queen had set the wooden lion on fire. The Weirwood burned, transforming the monument into a roaring vision of hell. Daenerys turned, silhouetted by her destruction. The flames clawed out of the roof while the smoke sank, swirling and folding, chasing everyone away until it was only Quaithe and Daenerys.

“Come with me,” Quaithe whispered, holding out her hands to her kin. It was the first vision she'd seen when the dreaming began – a white lion aflame.

Daenerys was unmoved. Tears mixed with blood. “You do not understand what I saw.”

Quaithe lifted her outstretched hands to hush her. “Those visions were for you and you alone.”

“Everything I thought I knew is a lie.”

Quaithe nodded. “I know. The world is a lie.”

Daenerys thought about sinking back into the flames. Of curling up at the edge of the world leaving the realm to squabble over its scraps. She imagined her dragons, free and left to roam the forests and oceans. They were safer there, in the wilderness without their mother.

“He waits for you.”

“Who?” Daenerys let one of the flames curl around her wrist.

“Who do you think?” Quaithe replied, standing as the smoke thickened. She could barely breathe and the heat from the fire made the mask over her face painfully hot. She was terrified of the flames, shaking so hard she nearly fell. All she could see in them were the burning figures of her nightmares – the collapsing ceiling of the palace and the un-hatched dragon eggs buried in the rubble, mocking her. “The Mormont prince,” she added. “You promised him, do you remember?”

Daenerys closed her eyes. She remembered. Her blood etched into his skin. Quaithe whispering while the black candles burned red. A sudden gasp of life. Then a scream. She remembered.

*~*~*

Quaithe wrapped the queen in a sorcerer's robe, found flung aside in the corridor. It was the colour of bloodstone and swallowed her figure, dragging over the floor as they emerged from the temple. The mountains raged, spewing rivers of fire down their flanks. A storm approached from the West and in the middle they would meet, brawling over _Asshai_.

“Where is everybody?” Daenerys asked.

“Afraid,” Quaithe replied. “Though that will not last long. You have to leave while you can.” She handed Daenerys a small, black horn wrapped with Valyrian steel bindings. “Blow on it, like this,” she showed the Queen. “If it still works, it will call your dragon to you.”

Daenerys did as she was shown but the horn only let out a faint rasp of air. When Daenerys frowned, Quaithe interrupted.

“We cannot hear the call of the dragons,” she assured her.

*~*~*

Before long, one of the old women snatched the book away from Jorah. When he tried to beg for more time, he was hit across the face by a mop. He felt like a cub and so he sat silently while the book was taken back into the darkness leaving him only the candle.

He dragged his sleeve up. The strange characters etched into his skin were fading. He brushed his thumb over them, more curious than angry. The last thing he remembered was falling into the ash on the mountain. _Failure_. That had been his last thought.

_Footsteps._

He'd know them anywhere. The sound of his queen was part of his soul. He knew her at a walk, run or storm.

“Khaleesi!” Jorah took the candle and moved toward the sound of her approach. He found her near the entrance with a glimpse of the city behind through the mouth of the building. Quaithe trailed, trying to warn him of something but Jorah only saw the Silver Queen. He knelt at once out of respect, her subject always.

Daenerys knocked the candle from his hands, sending it rolling across the floor. Her weight fell into his arms, almost knocking him over. She did not say anything so neither did he. Instead Jorah wrapped his arms around Daenerys and let her lay against his chest. She was a tangle of blood and smoke. It was matted through her beautiful hair which he allowed himself to touch only once, gently.

Quaithe drew closer to the pair as the candle died in a puddle of wax. “Come with me,” she whispered.

Jorah asked, “Where are we going?” as the queen shuffled deeper into his arms.

“The roof. There's a dragon coming,” she answered his silent question. “We do not have long. The city is re-grouping. They will come for her.”

The buildings of _Asshai_ did not have conventional roofs nor did they have have steps leading up to them. Quaithe led them up a perilous assortment of volcanic protrusions and tailored spines Jorah assumed to be the back of some monster. It was a parallel to _Yeen_ where the buildings had life of their own. Whomever their creators were, they had been obsessed with capturing the likeness of these demonic souls.

“Daenerys?” his queen had paused. The oversized, red robes were spread out over the building. Latched to the rope belt around her waist was a small bone horn that he had never seen before. _The dragon horn_ , he realised, as Quaithe had promised. Daenerys' hands were on the sculptured building and beneath them, the flicker of a flame had grown as if it were endemic to the stone. “You must not,” he added, taking her hand from the rock.

Daenerys nodded and resumed the climb.

*~*~*

“Where will you go?” Daenerys asked, as Quaithe prepared to leave them tucked into an alcove, waiting for the dragon.

“A ship, your Grace,” Quaithe bowed her head slightly. “I am done hiding from the world.”

Jorah frowned. “I thought you said that there were no ships?”

“For you,” she correct him. “There is a ship for me. Do not look so worried, Ser, our paths will cross again.”

Jorah went to protest that he wasn't remotely worried when Daenerys took his hand to stop him. “Thank you,” she said. “If it were not for your help I would be ash on a mountain. Go to your ship.”

Behind her golden mask, Quaithe smiled. “Look...” she breathed, pointing to the sky. On the mournful horizon, a black dot approached. Quaithe lingered. She had never seen a dragon in the flesh. The image of one, riding the winds was something from her mother's stories. It made her nostalgic for a past she'd never seen and eager for a future she might.

Eventually she left and returned to the crumbling harbour.

“You're _late_ ,” a sharp voice broke from the dark. Wreab was restless. His ship had its sails out and already the vessel was pulling against the ties, trying to escape the jetty. “Unrest is rising in the streets. Even the necromancers are out of their lairs. What happened in the temple?”

“Better that you don't know,” Quaithe insisted, heading towards the boat with Wreab shuffling in her wake.

“Well, you've cost me half my fortune this night.” Despite that, he held the ropes from her path as she boarded his boat. The men were waiting and with a nod, they started reeling lines. He was not calmed until a few dozen feet separated them from the wood. “The men think sorceresses are bad luck on board. I told them you were a scholar from Old Town hitching a ride home.”

“As you like,” she replied. Quaithe did not care. The waters were taking her home.

*~*~*

 _Drogon_ made his way toward them – a growing shadow in the Eastern sky. They waited out of sight in a small arch of black stone.

“Why do you stare?” Daenerys asked softly, catching her bear's eyes lingering on her face again. Half was red, half white and above, a crack in her flesh.

“You would understand if you could see,” he replied.

She rolled her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder, partly to thwart his stare. He accepted the compromise. “Have you seen yourself lately?”

He held up his hands and their odd markings. “I have a suspicion,” he replied. “Though I doubt mine will wash off as easily as yours will.” A pause, then. “You should have left me on that mountain, Khaleesi. I was dead. Gone. Bargains should never be made with death.”

“You were not dead,” she assured him. “Nearly. I made no bargain, only a promise.” Daenerys picked up his hand, cupping it in hers. She traced the patterns on his palm with her fingers. “And I'd do it again.”

Jorah shook his head. “I am no one,” he whispered.

“Oh I don't know about that,” she challenged, keeping hold of his hand as her dragon approached. “At the present, you are my only subject.”

He laughed softly until the soot in the air choked his lungs.

*~*~*

 _Drogon_ had grown. He circled the roof where his mother stood, buffeting them with the wind from his leather wings. The storm was on them. Cold rain beat against their faces.

“He's beautiful,” Daenerys murmured, an honest smile on her lips as the dragon reached for the slippery surface with huge talons. His claws severed shards of rock and dug into whatever remained. His body lurched forward as he landed and his wings scraped over the odd formations of dragonglass. _Drogon_ looked like another formation on the terrifying structure. The only tell was the way his head slowly turned. His red eyes settled on Daenerys.

_Crack._

A pair of rivers cut across the sky, dividing it with a blinding light that flashed three times then vanished.

“Quickly now,” Jorah insisted, helping her climb onto _Drogon's_ back. The dragon bucked his head but otherwise waited with the patience of a Lord's horse while the pair of them settled. Then, with water streaming off his scales, Daenerys leaned down and said, _'S_ _ōvegon...'_

Drogon pushed off the roof and flew into the night.

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END OF PART 1

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, we are half way through. Please, if you have a moment and you're enjoying the ride, leave a review or tap on the kudos button. Part II will begin shortly.


	36. Rising Moon

 

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**PART II - ICE**

“Old powers awaken. Shadows stir. An age of wonder and terror will soon be upon us, an age for gods and heroes.”

-LEO TYRELL

 

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###  **TUMBLETON – WESTEROS**

Wolves howled at the rising moon. It was red. Low in the sea. Clawing up from beyond the edge of the world. Bathing in the fires of the forgotten sun. Bruises marred its surface, grey against the blood. She danced with the world, over and over, chasing the night – fleeing the dawn. If they rose together – a star and its pale shadow, Winter would soon follow with the turning of the tide.

Nymeria's pack was vast, wandering the _Riverlands_ during the long frozen nights. They pawed at wet grass, arching their backs and rustling thick manes of fur against the crisp air. With pointed ears pinned back and snouts black with a kill, the half-light caught in their coats, scattered by a dusting of snow. Nymeria wove through her pack, nudging the others gently aside until she emerged at a break in the forest. The sunken basin of _Tumbleton_ lay below. It was concealed by a fierce labyrinth of grass, grown out of devastation. Life fed on death. The world forgot. Horror grew to beauty.

They fanned out into _Tumbleton_ , chasing water birds that had crept from the protection of the river to feast on insects. Feathers and panicked squawking followed their nightly run. One of the smaller wolves dragged a duck through the reeds. It was limp against the wolf's jaw but one dead eye remained open, staring at nothing.

Nymeria paddled into a narrow fork of the murky river and climbed onto the barren rise of land. The mud was black under her paws, devoid of life. It had been cursed by dragon fire, poisoned by magic. The wolf stopped, face to face with _Vermithor's_ skull. Panting, the direwolf circled the dragon corpse, prowling through the empty rib cage, sniffing the scattered vertebra where a tail curled through the silt. Hundreds of scales caught the moonlight, scattered around the body like stars.

Her pack began to howl. Nymeria emerged from the remains and looked to the evening sky. There, within the curtain of a galaxy, was an enormous bird gliding towards them. No. Not a bird. Something else. Something terrifying.

Nymeria snapped at her pack, scattering them into the reeds until they vanished through the mist.

 _Silverwing_ circled, dipping the edge of her wing into a current of air, letting herself sink lazily. She landed beside _Vermithor,_ cautiously approaching the bones. Gently, she nudged her snout to his. The bone was cold. She retreated, laying her enormous body on the black mud beside him. Death's bride. Far away and out of sight, Nymeria watched the dragon play with the bones. Trapped by grief. The wolf's white eyes rolled.

Ayra woke with a gasp, clutching her chest. She felt as if her heart had shattered and the pieces lay on the marble floor like the dragon's scales. Falling back, she pressed herself to the cold stone. Sweat dripped down her cheek.

“A girl has had a dream,” Jaqen H'ghar lingered by the pool of water, a thief in the moonlight. He often perched on the silver edge, considering the certainty below. The purity of death and those that sought it – their faces covered the walls. Dead but forever alive. Life itself was the greatest lie. Only those that let it go were truly free.

“It was _not_ a dream,” Ayra insisted, stubbornly rolling over to face the fire. It crackled in constant rebellion to the silence. Every night Ayra wandered the Northern lands, running with her pack. She smelled the snow in the air, tasted fresh blood and chased the shadows through the night. Wolves were no one.

###  **THE NARROW SEA**

Sailors gathered around a thick, soot-stained candle carried with them over the seas. They set their drinks to the side, struck a match and lit the gnarled remains of wax. The wick folded down, recoiling from the heat. Tryion shifted his body into a pile of cushions with a better view of the spectacle. Games were afoot. Tryion was fond of those. His glass missed the edge of the table as he set it down. Wine flowed over the wood in a pink tide, vanishing through the cracks between the floor boards.

Men from both crews swayed around the growing flame as vipers from the sand, chanting lost seaman's words. One at a time, they held their palms over the quivering tip where the flame became nothing. Then the others counted.

“ _Bisy,_ lanta, hāre – oh!” They'd shout in dismay, as a hand was pulled away with blistered skin. Tyrion had seen this game before. It was a favourite of Shae's. That woman's skin was made of dragonglass. _“Bisy, lanta, hāre, izula...”_ They never got any further than four.

“All right!” Tyrion declared to the men. “You've convinced me!” Despite no one asking. Sailors would never dare ask lords to join their foolish fun. “Arm in the fire – yes?”

The sailors bore burned flesh and tried to warn him away. Tyrion drank of their wine, traced the horrific scar on his face from battle and laughed with them, thrusting his forearm over the flame.

“ _Bisy.”_

For a moment there was nothing. The light touched him and danced across his flesh as a ghost passes through dreams.

“ _Lanta.”_

Beckoning warmth. A pleasant purr of tepid stone on a cold morning. Leaning on the short rise of balcony overlooking _King's Landing_ with the waters pulling back from the rock thinking, 'perhaps'.

“ _Hāre.”_

Sudden, violent pain. He flinched.

“ _Izula.”_

His hair disintegrated into vapour. The skin below blushed. His arm tried to flee but Tyrion held it firm with his other and focussed on the dancing flame. For a moment, he thought he heard a filthy whisper in the light.

“ _Tōma.”_

Tyrion's arm shook. The skin burned, rippling and blistering, falling away like sheets of parchment. Pain stabbed through him leaving a veneer of salt over his eyes. The sailors' excitement turned to concern. Together, they murmured, _“Byllie...”_

“Argh!” Tyrion fled he flame, plunging his arm into a goblet of wine. A dozen hands clapped onto his back, celebrating his victory. He barely felt them over the agony. Tyrion had suffered worse injury on the edge of a blade but there was a certain ruthlessness about fire. It was violence made liquid and it lingered, living in the wound like a vengeful spell. It was cruel.

“ _The small troll wins!”_ One of them announced joyfully in Valyrian, dropping an inconsequential bag of winnings on the table in front of Tyrion.

The familiar crunch of coin held no allure. “A gift – to your health,” Tyrion rejected it, resulting in another cheer and fresh pitcher of wine set beside him. He withdrew his arm from the goblet and inspected the ruined patch of skin. Wine had caused his rash bravery; it would solve the crippling pain.

The Unsullied did not partake of the festivities. They sat rigidly around the edges of the room like plinths of a temple. Their dark skin was a novelty to Illyrio's crew. In vain they offered them wine and exotic dried fruits.

“Not bad,” one of the sailors took a place beside Tyrion. His leather belt bore the imprints of the Volantian motto, accentuated with a few semi-precious stones from _Myr_. “The Lord of Light favours you.”

Tyrion found that amusing, laughing into his wine. “The God of Fools, I rather,” Tyrion insisted. “Your Lord has venom.” He showed the sailor the wound which had begun to peel away. “If this is favour, I would hate to provoke ill tidings.”

“You serve the dragon queen,” the sailor clarified. He produced a dirty length of bandage which he wrapped around the imp's arm, pulling it tight. “The red priests build pyres in the streets of Volantis and the people dance all night to the flames, calling forth the fire. They say that she is a god reborn. Her dragons are gifts for her battle with the night. The winds grow colder while the fires stay warm.”

“Is that what they say... The last time I was in Volantis at Illyrio's grace, the red priests were kept to the fringes of the city – a few fragile voices in a twisting mass of a dozen gods.”

“No longer.” The sailor lowered his voice, moving with Tyrion to a more private corner. “Those that oppose the Lord of Light are sacrificed to his glory. Their teachings have made the city rulers powerful. The uprising of the merchant-quarter was crushed in weeks. I've seen it begin in Pentos. Some among our crew are devout. They spread the word wherever we make port. The game is their test.”

“And you – are you one of the devout?”

“I am Braavosi, my Lord.”

“Braavos is not-”

“It is all the same to the many faced god,” the sailor interrupted, his words like silk. “We left our gods when we left our masters. I remember the first red priests to arrive in the city, gathering the poorest to market corners. They vanished as smoke after the rains.” The sailor went quiet, his eyes pausing on the candle. The sailors had begun their game anew. Around they went. Over and over. It ended the same. Cheering – blood – another in arm in the flame. “Have you an interest in Braavos?”

Even drunk, Tyrion held back his answer. “It is an interesting place.”

“The Braavosi serve no gods, be they man or dragon.”

“Their god is gold and they mine it as they once did in the pits of Old Valyria,” Tyrion pointed out carefully, lowering his voice to a hushed slur, “now they mine it from men's pockets. I do not judge your city or its people but one god is as good as the next be they made of whispers, blood or gold.”

“Is it true, you have a dragon?”

“Come...” Tyrion relieved the sailor of his glass. “Let me show you what happens when the gods touch the world.”

*~*~*

“Rhaegal – that is his name,” Tyrion leaned heavily on the rail. Though the ship rocked gently, the motion threatened to knock the unsteady imp flat on his face. The wine was stronger than he imagined or he'd consumed more than he meant to.

The dragon landed on the side of the deck with an ungainly flap of his leather wings. It made the sails billow momentarily and the ships knock together where the ropes pulled them close. Then the dragon stepped onto the deck and settled into the pile of discarded sails and bits of fishing net that it called a nest. The sailor watched in a chaotic mixture of alarm and awe. The sight sobered him.

“Dragons are not real. They are – stories. Lies from South. Memories of the ones that-”

“Enslaved you?” Tyrion offered. “Dragons are quite real. As real as the mountains they slept in and the ruins of Valyria that smoulder in the sea. I have sailed those waters and seen what lives there now.”

Rhaegal appeared more a sea monster than child of fire. Threads of weed were caught in his emerging horns. His scales rained salty water over the deck while smoke drizzled from its snout. He shook his oversized head, pawed at the deck then turned his golden eyes on the moon. _Yes_ , thought Tyrion, _a beautiful, green serpent risen from the depths._

The sailor knelt before the dragon, recanting old Valyrian words banished from his tongue. They haunted him along with the memory of their brutal civilisation. Tyrion could not tell if it was a prayer or a curse. Instead, he focussed on the dragon. Rhaegal was creature no different to a lion or a bear. They were all the same – living and dead. Men hammered out their likeness, wearing breastplates with fearsome styles but underneath the silver, jewels and pelts they remained _men_ – men wearing masks. Tyrion knew that he was no more a lion than his poor young nephew.

Two figures crossed the narrow bridge between the ships.

“I held those eggs,” Illyrio continued their conversation, as he and Varys appeared on deck. Illyrio was amazed by the dragon, reaching out as if to touch it. “Carried them from shore to shore. Slept with them under my bed and near drowned with them in a shit hole at the edge of the world. To think that this is what slumbered within the rock. I thought the dragons were dead.”

Varys' eyes were unusually dark. A spider's eyes. Mist crept over the water, kicked up by the waves. “Is that why you sold the children to the Dothraki?”

“I thought Drogo was their best chance at an army.” He replied, lowering his hand, unwilling to approach the dragon. His reply was thick with regret. “There were not exactly suitors at every corner of the kingdom looking to align themselves with the Mad King's spawn. Hated royals with no kingdom, no gold and no family? It was only a matter of time before an assassin made it through my gates. They were safer with the Dothraki savages. The horse lords cared nothing for Westeros' problems.” Illyrio watched the dragon fold its wings down and chirp softly. Illyrio never imagined that they would behave like birds. “It was a good match – for both of them. The boy with his army, the girl a queen.”

“Banished to the outskirts of the world to be forgotten.” Varys' reply slipped through the air. “How many ships did you build with horse-gold, I wonder? This one? I see you paint it red to honour the Lord of Light – curious for a man that has no gods. You and I spurned them long ago.”

The whispers of the sailor stained the air. His half-drunken lips kissed the ship's deck. Tyrion gripped the rail tight as he felt his body stumble. He watched Varys and the trader from _Pentos_ curiously as they moved closer, keeping their distance from the dragon. This was not a meeting of chance.

“I brought what you asked,” Illyrio added, nodding at Varys. “Kept is safe, as you asked. Fed your little birds from Braavos to Meereen, as you asked.” He opened his arms. “Your word is my cause.”

Varys shifted and Tyrion realised that he was wearing a thick leather belt beneath the layers of his robe. Strapped onto this was a scabbard. The sword's handle was jewelled, catching the moonlight as though it were alive with magic of its own. It looked like a cousin of the moon. Swirls of sapphire, lapis and white gold danced together. What was Varys doing with a sword? His weapons were words, sharp and deadly. “Varys?”

Varys ignored the dwarf. His eyes flicked to the dragon and then roamed over Illyrio's enlarged figure which shifted as the mists encroached the deck.

“Yes, I do owe you thanks,” Varys replied evenly. He casually withdrew the sword from sheath and laid it harmlessly across his palms. It was a thing of beauty, drowning in the moonlight. The blade had stylised Valyrian text embossed into the steel – the words for which it was famous. _Truth_ was an unusual sword – short, wide and ceremonial with unicorn silk tassels tied to the handle or so the legend went. Perhaps it was horsehair. Who could know? “I have had very few possessions in my life. The curse of an orphan. Even some that I was born with were taken from me. This – I took.” The blade was flipped over in his palms. The edge caught his skin, coating itself in Varys' blood. He did not flinch. Pain was nothing.

“It was my pleasure to mind it for you,” Illyrio assured him. “We are friends.”

Varys switched his hold, turning it on Illyrio. Blood dripped along the steel edge. Illyrio lifted his hands in defence. Tyrion stumbled closer, stepping awkwardly over the praying sailor.

“Careful, Varys,” Illyrio warned, genuinely believing Varys meant no harm. “Even after all these years, it is still quite sharp. Valyrian steel is – unique. Something about the way the metal is cast.”

“I am always careful,” he replied heartlessly. Before Illyrio could move, Varys lunged.

 _Truth_ cut a passage into Illyrio's flesh, parting his ribs, tearing the lungs – birthing through his back. Illyrio looked down to find Varys' fist and the jewelled handle of the sword pressed against his chest. There was no pain, only the shock of death. Blood welled up Illyrio's throat, choking him before it spilled down his chin, spoiling his elaborate beard. He coughed violently. The blood sprayed over Tyrion's face. Shocked, the dwarf stood, open mouthed at the slaughter above.

“My – friend...” Illyrio reached forward, grabbing onto Varys' silk clothes. He clutched at them as if he were grasping for life.

Varys walked Illyrio forward with the sword through his body, forcing him toward the dragon who perked up, showing an interest in the smell of blood. _“You were my gaoler,”_ Varys whispered. “Without me you'd be cowering over a beggar’s bowl or rotting in a ditch fighting someone else's war.” Then, Varys leaned in, embracing Illyrio one last time. Lips to his ear he whispered. _“Did you truly believe that I would not find out? If a bastard noble twice removed has a bastard of his own, I know. If a royal languishing at the edge of the world breathes, I hear. You – you I feel – and all your sins...”_

“Varys – _please_ – I...”

“Do not beg.”

Varys, a taller, stronger man than most gave the eunuch credit for, forced Illyrio off the sword's blade. The man went backwards, landing in a pool of blood. A shadow fell over his face. Salt rained. The stench of decay filled his world. Illyrio clawed at the open wound on his chest but the last of his life seeped over his fingers, spurred on with the ragged hammering of his heart. Then, amid the restless brush of sea against the hull, he heard a curious _chirp_.

Rhaegal tossed Illyrio into the sails and waited for him to fall, screaming. When he landed, a mangle of fragmented bones and wailing terror, Rhaegal pressed the large body down with his paw to the crunch of bone and slowly chewed the head off. Varys watched, dispassionate. The sailor could not chant for horror. Tyrion placed his shaking hand on Varys' arm.

“Amazing.”

“What is?” Tyrion asked cautiously. A monstrous sound assaulted his ears. It was the worst thing he'd ever heard and yet he found that he could not reproach the dragon for its butchery. If you fed an animal it would eat, there was no villainy in that.

Varys let his finger wander down the edge of the sword. “How easy the blade goes in and life comes out. I imagined it would be difficult.”

Rhaegal settled down with Illyrio's corpse. The sailors from his ship had abandoned their games and gathered on deck, drawn by the screams only to become fixed in horror. The Unsullied too. They cast uncertain looks between Tyrion and Varys who were equally covered in Illyrio's blood. The sailors shifted. One carrying a rum bottle smashed it against the side of the ship. Roared. Then unleashed _hell._

“Varys!” Tyrion cried, as the sailors picked up weapons and launched themselves in a screaming mass.

Varys brandished his blood-soaked sword, cutting down the first drunken man within reach. Tyrion, unarmed, ducked away from swords, iron bars, bottles and lengths of chain whipped through the air. One hit the mast above and sent a shower of splinters across the deck. They bounced through the blood then vanished below the surface. Tyrion slipped. He landed on his back, flailing like one of the large beetles from the desolate shores of _Casterly Rock._ A scaled paw rested either side.

Rhaegal was pre-occupied with Illyrio's clothes. They were stuck in his claws along with bits of sinew and part of a hand that bore a spear and cluster of skulls. The nightmare of the broken pieces of flesh around him was only a taste. Tyrion contorted his short body to see the Unsullied warring with the sailors. For all their noise and energy, they were easily subdued by the slave army. Soon, corpses lay in a shallow red ocean at their feet.

Calm returned. Shocked, the Unsullied stood over their victims. Tyrion rolled away from the dragon before it noticed his presence. The sailor from the game was the only member of Illyrio's crew left alive. He knelt on the deck – blood washing against his knees as he whispered to the dragon. Varys' sword sliced through the air above.

“No!” Tyrion stopped him, catching onto his sleeve The dwarf was on his stomach, desperately reaching up to the other man. “What are you doing? What is this?” Blood ran down his wrist. “I am – so lost. _Please, stop doing that..._ ” he added, hissing sharply to the sailor. The murmurings of gods was not improving Varys' mood. _“Stop. Stop.”_ The sailor's lips stilled.

“There are others, on the ship,” Varys nodded coldly at Illyrio's vessel, lashed to theirs. “Tell your new friend to return there, sail away and never speak a word.” He also commanded the Unsullied to pile the corpses on its deck while the remainder of the crew were kept below. Last to board was the sailor from Tyrion's game. He kicked the boards into the sea and untied the ropes. Missandei joined the men on deck. Her eyes tracked along the dark horizon, checking for ships but they were alone. The twin glows of _King's Landing_ and _Pentos_ breathed life into the underside of roaming storms.

When the ships were free of each other, Varys stood on the thick edge of the bannister, holding a flaming torch against the darkness. With his free hand securely in the rigging, he leaned slightly over the water, tempting fate.

“We will say nothing – nothing,” The sailor promised Varys, tossing the final coil of rope at his feet.

“I know,” Varys replied. He allowed the sailor to turn before he tossed the torch onto the other ship's deck. It landed in a stream of lamp oil and roared into a wall of flames. Screaming filled the air, rising with the smoke. The ship burned like a dying forge, collapsing in on itself until the dark waters opened and dragged it, along with all the souls on board, into the depths to live in the realm of the drowned god.

The dragon slept through the inferno. A storm that had earlier caressed the edge of sunset, hung over the ship. It rumbled. Light flared and died, hidden by its clouds. Had it come to witness? Did the storm and the sea conspire against them? It started to rain. Cold water washed off the wood, filling the sea with smoke and death. An angry moon hung under the storm, rising in the East – looming over the continent of Westeros like a frightening eye.

“The night is dark and full of terrors...” Tyrion whispered, as he felt Missandei's hand take his.

Varys wiped his sword on his robes and slid it back into its holster. Then he retreated below deck as a spider to his web.

*~*~*

“Speak with me.” Tyrion implored.

Varys sat opposite, a candle between them. Tyrion watched Varys through the restless flame, trying to decipher the mask that this man he thought he knew wore from day to day. Missandei listened at the door, laid against the wood where Tyrion had left her.

“Because,” Tyrion continued, “I need to understand what happened. There is a ship full of good men beneath us – our own crew are terrified, Missandei will not leave her room and the Unsullied whisper amongst themselves. Is that what you wanted? The queen would have forgiven Illyrio, I am certain.”

“You know little of royal forgiveness – or of women. That aside, this is not about the betrayal of children – or the crown – or the fanatics that burn people in the streets for the whispers of gods...” Varys replied calmly. He sat as a statue, reserved and at peace with the horror. He had planned this for so long that it was as if he walked a dream. “Illyrio sold us. The sailors you mourn were your sister's guards, no doubt under contract to take you back to the knife's edge – or worse. Cersei always had a creative flare when it came to the murder of her enemies. The dragon, a creature you pretend not to love, he sold to the nostalgic rulers of Volantis and the Targaryens that linger in the city's heart.”

“You killed Illyrio because he sold out our queen.” Tyrion realised. Now he understood. If that were true then he could not leave any survivors to share the tale. “Varys you – you could have told me – warned us...”

“Poor actors, all of you,” Varys said quietly, inspecting but not drinking of the wine. He never did. Instead, he turned the thick candle, if only to watch the flame move. “That is not why I did it.”

Tyrion frowned, wondering if it would be okay to reach toward him. Varys was a man who disliked the touch of others so instead he dipped his head slightly, ducking around the flame. “Why then?” he proceeded softly. “Gods know I'm no innocent man. If we're going to serve the queen together, I have to understand.”

“Illyrio was born poor, this you know,” he started softly. “He began his work in the employ of a sorcerer, not a very good one, as I've since learned. Illyrio's job was to procure things for the sorcerer which he did through me. Usually this meant obscure or expensive ingredients which I thieved from all corners of the city. Sometimes, though, the sorcerer would ask for something different. Children.”

Tyrion withdrew a fraction, anger spawning pity. “Illyrio sold you.”

“Not even,” he replied, almost in dismay. “The half-wit sorcerer that snatched away my parts and left me to die in the street was a faceless horror – one among a crowd of snakes infesting the city. He came long before my friend, Illyrio.”

“Then what?”

“When we were rising in Pentos, I gathered whispers for him. Brought him clients. Shared his profits. When I was coming down the stone steps of his ancient hovel under one of the ailing brothels, navigating the sick and torrents of turned wine, I found that he already he had guests for the evening. I lingered there, in the shadows and watched three terrified children cling to his robes, hiding in the folds of silk while a red priest passed him a gold purse and led the children away. Those tiny eyes saw me, as they climbed the stairs, following the creature in red. There was a moment where I could have stopped her – paid for the children and turned them into little birds but she looked at me – no, through me.”

“How old were you then?”

Varys shrugged. “Fourteen.”

“A child yourself.”

“The stain from Myr had travelled to the city I thought I knew and it was feeding on our fortune. How many red priests have you met?”

“I've seen one in the street – a few more from a distance.”

“They all have the same eyes, the same wickedness at their heart. Never trust a creature that whispers to sleeping gods. They are not the friends of men but playthings.”

“Varys – you did not have to slaughter all the men. Our queen would not like it.”

“My deal with Illyrio was for you and the dragon, separate to Cersei's arrangement. His men were paid to ply you with drink and throw you into the sea. We were to proceed to Braavos to buy the Iron Throne for the Silver Queen with the backing of his friends in the free cities. Order would return. His debts paid and mine.”

“They won't support us now...”

Varys looked to the sky – to the storm that casually nipped at the restless layer of mist. “Why ever not?” He replied. “Such a terrible business. Storms in the Narrow Sea.”

*~*~*

Missandei wrapped her long, bony fingers around Tyrion's wrist and dragged him by the arm into her room, throwing him against the locked door so hard that he bounced off and hit the wood a second time. She did not light any candles, leaving them both in the dark with the slap of rain against the windows.

“Normally, I'd be flattered-” he started to say, until she covered his mouth with her other hand to shush him. The whites of her eyes were caught in what remained of the moonlight.

“Quiet or he'll hear,” she hissed.

“Who will hear? You mean Varys? Missandei-” her hand silenced him again, firm on his lips.

“He murdered two dozen men without a thought.”

Tyrion mumbled against her hand until she allowed him to whisper. “Oh he thought about it, he failed to mention it to us, that's all.”

“But what kind of man is that?” Missandei knelt so that they were the same height. “He _lied_.”

“Well, he did not say anything at all. A slight but important distinction in his mind.” Tyrion rested his hands gently on Missandei's shoulders, holding her steady. “Look I know what you're thinking, it was horrific-”

“Violence does not shock me. I was born to slavers. Murder and violence are all I have known and war, even war with honourable intent, is still awash of slaughter. You think I flinched when our queen raised two hundred crosses with screaming men or burned Astapor to ash? He could have told us, Tyrion. What other plans are in the Spider's shadows? We are all the Queen's council.”

“Missandei... Illyrio and Varys – they were thick as thieves.” He paused. “Well, they were thieves. That's – not what I was trying to say.”

“I know what you were trying to say. I am not a fool. We need Varys to broker a deal with the Iron Bank but...”

“But you do not trust him.”

“I do not trust him,” she agreed. “Or you.”

“Fair enough.” Although Tyrion felt a breath of hope that she trusted him slightly more today than she did before. “Do you think you could let go of my arm only I had an accident with a flame.”

###  **YIN – YI TI**

The ship burned like a scroll tossed into the depths of a lord's fireplace. Cold winds swept down from the cliffs and whipped up the flames while flurries of snow melted and turned to steam.

Daario fled the deck, weaving through panicked pirates trying to board their rescue boat that had pulled alongside. He half-fell into the hatch leading to the lower levels of the deck, catching his arm on a rope half way down that saved him from a cracked neck. Smoke sank into the depths, choking him. Daario wrapped a rag around his face and unhooked a lantern from the wall, holding in front as a faint glow against the smoke. It was like wading through a swamp. He reached out, keeping one hand on the wall while he searched for the pirate queen's chambers.

He kicked in the locked door. One of its hinges clung to the strong wood, leaving it crestfallen. Daario stepped over it, casting a cautious glance at the ceiling which glowed from the fire taking hold above. The underside of the wood could have passed for the innards of a blacksmith's forge. He ducked away from its heat.

Quickly, Daario searched, filling a satchel with deeds, jewels and most importantly, maps. As he turned to leave, part of the deck collapsed into the room, sending a storm of embers into the air. They bit at his face, catching part of his clothes alight. Daario batted at them frantically, throwing his body out into the corridor.

Smoke. He closed his eyes and reached forward with both arms, feeling for the edges of the corridor. The wood remained cool under hand where the water touched the other side. Palms flush, he pressed forward until he tripped awkwardly up the first step of the ladder. Daario collapsed against it, cursing and moaning while more of the ship crumbled into ruin. _You're not going to die on a damn ship._ He told himself firmly.

He was about to drag his injured body up when someone stepped onto his back, tripped and fell straight over him. Daario groaned, crawling desperately toward the open hatch and fresh air.

The person on the floor behind _moaned_. He had heard that sound before. It chased him through the city. _The undead were aboard._

He kept quiet, repressing the urge to cough the poisonous smoke out of his lungs. The creature that had fallen inside the ship scratched around, blinded as he was. The sounds it mad were enough to haunt any man's dreams.

Higher Daario clambered, scaling the steps until flame beat away the smoke and he emerged onto the burning surface of the ship. Those terrible creatures from the city were climbing up over the rails, using the mooring ropes to scale the edges. Some of them had the bodies of pirates, tearing through the flesh with their bare hands. Others were swarming toward the nearest ship where hoards of pirates fought them off with a clash of swords. Another mast groaned above. Daario looked up to see the wood split. The sails, also burning, dragged it down with another gust of wind. It leered toward Daario – falling...

“Oh shit...” Daario hissed, pushing himself away from the stairs. Injured, he stumbled into the fray. He withdrew his new sword, taking it with two shaking hands. He screamed as he approached the first huddle of creatures, slicing through the first that came at him. He was about to take down another when the mast crashed into the deck and split the back of the boat in half. The deck beneath Daario's feet shifted violently into the air. Daario startled, reaching out with on hand to grip the rail while the undead fell, sliding without control down the burning deck toward the sea.

It took him a moment to realise that several hands had latched onto the back of his shirt, pulling him over the gap between the ships. Even with the heavy sword still in his grasp they managed to throw him onto the safety of the other deck. Daario lay there for a moment. It was serene, staring at the sky while black smoke billowed across it. The cries of war seemed so far away – as did the shrieking of the dragon which circled the fleet, throwing green flame from its throat onto the surface of the water. _Yin's_ wharves had caught now. The fire was creeping along the ancient wood, working its way toward the beautiful city and all its treasures.

A line of horses watched the mayhem from the cliffs. _Yin_ burned. Its harbour burned. The cliffs blackened with heat. A thousand gulls fled, swarming the air. They screeched, chasing the dragon away.

 


	37. Labyrinth of Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the incredible Laivaaja who created the most beautiful Jorah Mormont artwork on tumblr. You are perfect. http://laivaaja.tumblr.com/image/145219621643

 

###  **ABOVE THE SHADOW LANDS – ESSOS**

Jorah felt Fate's temptation brush against his lips. Even with  _Drogon's_ wings flat, strong wind coursing under their leather and a clear night sky, it would take only a whim of fancy to send them tumbling toward death in the horrific landscape below. A scattering of porcelain on the rock. The _Shadow Lands_ were something of a nightmare. While Daenerys lay against  _Drogon's_ scaled back Jorah sat rigid to the rush of air. The dragon's enormous spread covered most of the view but he could make out enough of the folded, smoking mess below between the steady flap of wings to track their progress.

From  _Asshai_ they'd headed North, clearing the storm and over the first peaks of erupting mountains. The  _Jade Sea_ lay to the left and the endless stretch of burned desolation to their right. Every now and then he saw a pit of lava boiling in the heart of a mountain. Dotted in the valleys between these savage things were dead cities. Their ghastly forms hung empty, forgotten. The silver queen was not curious. She laid her cheek against  _Drogon's_ smooth scales, gripped the spines on the softer edge of his neck and closed her eyes, sleeping soundly to the beat of the monster's heart.

Jorah could not sleep. Instead, he watched. He  _was_ curious about the things that lurked in  _The Shadow_ . He found it unnatural – these fallen civilisations. They were intertwined with his queen's future, of that he was sure. Jorah wedged his boots between two long horns to stop from sliding off. The ancient Valyrians built saddles for a reason. There was very little to hold onto. Every slight dip in the dragon's flight sent them sliding with alarming speed. Once or twice he'd reached for Daenerys, catching her before she could fall. It wasn't the dead cities that troubled Ser Jorah. It was the occasional cluster of light within them. There were things living there. Old things. Dangerous things.

He turned his attention to the sea. Its smooth, black surface reflected the moon and all its imperfections. No matter how far across the world they travelled, it was always the same moon. The same sky. The same gods, he suspected. Staring at the watery orb made him feel a fraction closer to home. He tried to imagine what it must be like at  _Bear Island_ . Cold, no doubt. Always fucking freezing. The waters around the cliffs would have frozen by now and the frosts rolled in from the bay. If there were storms they'd be shedding ice over the keep, turning the stone buildings white as if they were made of ice. The pines – well they were outposts of dark green, weighed down with soft, new snow. The bears and the birds, the children and the wolves – were curled up, safe away from winter. Jorah could smell the sweet smoke from the grand fire places which circled the elegant towering halls. There was a simple grace in that world.

“Sh... Daenerys...” he whispered, as she started to shift oddly in front of him. The queen was dreaming. He placed his hand on her back, trying to still her. A dragon was no place for dreams.

“Where are we going?” she asked, waking slightly at his touch.

“North, my queen.”

“North?” she lifted her head, turning her pale eyes inquisitively on him. “Why North?”

Jorah laughed softly. “He is your dragon,  _khaleesi_ . He goes where you wish.”

“Where he likes.” She corrected. “What is North?”

“The old empire. _Yi Ti_. The first _Empire of the Dawn_. There is little there now – forests of traders, ancient temples of Eastern wisdom. They are the spiritual journeys for wealthy Westerosi with too much money and no sense. I cannot think what your dragon hopes to find there.”

“There is not a lot we can do about it,” she laid her head down. Her fingers played with the small, hard bumps of emerging horns. _Drogon_ was exceedingly beautiful in his own threatening way. Since he had grown, the patterns in his scales had taken on intricate forms. In the moonlight they were the darkest hue of red. “What do you see?”

“Land, your Grace, over there to the West. Many hours away.” It was a slither of white on the horizon. Probably a rise of limestone cliffs catching the light. “Ships, perhaps. Something is burning.” _Yin,_ as it fell to ashes. “What happened in the temple?”

Daenerys rubbed her thumb over a deformed scale. It had grown oddly around an injury. Her poor child. He bled for her and still came when she called. “A shadow binder discovered us while Quaithe was away. It knew I was there. Their magic. My magic. I think they are the same.” Daenerys said nothing of the act itself or of the vicious force that broke into the room, threw her across it and dragged her away by her silver hair while he lay unconscious, trembling between life and death. Jorah never heard her screams. He must have been dead.

“I had a maester when I was young. A peculiar man sent by the citadel as is our custom in noble houses. Most maesters deplore magic. They deny its existence or suggest that it is a force that has faded from the world. This man thought differently. When my father was not looking – which was often, your Grace – he'd tell me stories about The Wall and the Children of the forest. Times before history began. We spent the Springs searching crypts along Bear Island for traces of this history. He even showed me how to pray to the bleeding tree on the cliffs and place my hands upon its bark.” He mimicked the action, lifting his hands against the wind. They glistened with fading glyphs. “He said that some Northern lords can hear whispers in the wood. I did not have the gift or the gods had nothing to say to me.”

“There is a weirwood on Bear Island?”

Jorah nodded, lowering his hands. He rested one on an awkward spine surging out of the dragon next to his leg. “Of course. An old one. They are more common in the North. Ours is wild. Grown through the cliffs and into the caves that watch the bay. Its thousand roots drink of the frozen water. I'll always remember its red leaves washing up on the shore. The dogs used to pick them from the tide line and play, tearing them apart. Red snow.”

“Why do the maesters deny magic?” she asked.

Jorah was quiet for a moment. “Magic brought chaos to the realm.” Jorah felt his lip curl in a fond smile. “I wonder what became of him – the maester. Probably dead.”

“Do you believe in my magic, Ser Jorah?”

His silence was her answer.

It started again.

Jorah's heart missed a few beats. The uncomfortable rhythm turned his breath shallow. The strange markings on his skin began to burn. Suddenly, the vision of the moon rippled unnaturally. Its enormous, pale orb shook and was torn free. It lifted out of the East and curved through the sky, falling towards the Southern horizon. It vanished. Darkness reigned. A cataclysmic impact lit up the world as if a second sun, soaked in blood, was rising.

_It is not real._ Jorah clamped a hand over his face, forcing himself to focus. The sky reformed. The moon hung as it should, cold and silent over the water. His heart slowed. He was seeing things again. Jorah held both his hands in front of him, watching them shake. The poison lived in his blood and always would.

“You are quiet.” Daenerys murmured, falling toward sleep.

“I am always quiet. Those are the ways of the North.”

“Liar...” her whisper rustled against the dragon's scales.

###  **BEAR ISLAND**

###  **254 AC**

  
  


Jeor's boat lifted, sliding along the fresh ice which crowded the harbour. His boots were the first to make shore as he dragged the boat up the black-stone beach, past the burning corpses. _So many._ They lay with arrows, axes and broken swords as their shrouds, quickly vanishing in the heavy snow. Most were fishermen, tangled in their own nets. Others were children, caught in the fur robes of their dead parents. Some lived, hiding in every shadow as their Lord returned. Jeor saw them. He lifted a finger to his lips, telling them to stay out of sight. They did – sinking away to nothing.

Shock passed between the men as they disembarked to find their families massacred by a _Wilding_ raiding party, not long fled. Jeor headed directly for the keep. It brooded over the modest settlement, reaching above the nearby forest of pine as though it were part of the tortured bursts of rock that formed the island. Many _Wildlings_ lay among the dead. Those that had not quite finished with the world were shown their exit. Jeor helped, bloodying his sword.

“My Lord – wait. My Lord!” One of his men rushed across the treacherous ground, slick with moss and ice to catch up to his Lord. He could not reach him. Mormont moved like a whisper on the winter wind, disappearing into the howling mouth _Bear Island_ keep.

The wind ululated after him. Corpse guards slouched against the entrance. They were barely cubs, yet to grow into their square northern jaws and large hands. Smouldering pine cones rolled over the floor with blusters of wind. Jeor reached out and pushed off the stone door frame, clearing the mangled bodies. Smoke rolled down the spiralling stairs, moving as mist lifting off the unnamed mountains across the water. His wife's handmaidens were collected in the living area on the ground floor – stripped, raped and murdered. Women he had played with as a child himself had been reduced to cuts of meat. _Thenns –_ at the wrong end of the Wall. He tore his eyes away and screamed his wife's name. His voice rang of the stone like the hammer of the citadel's bell.

“My Lord!” His man entered the keep as Jeor took the first steps.

The Lord of _Bear Island_ could not be stopped. Without the fires it was cold as death. Jeor could see his breath in front of him, hitting him in the face over and over as he circled towards the top of the keep where he'd left his wife and heir.

He found the door and its barricade in several pieces, hacked apart with axes. Another of his wife's ladies lay over it. For the first time he paused, hesitant to enter the silent room. He could see a slither of it from the door – its window, snow spilling in and smoke shifting restlessly on the floor. It was so quiet.

“My Lord – please. I _beg_ you...” his man caught up and reached for his arm, offering to go in first.

Jeor shook him off.

_Wildlings_ littered the room inside. His wife, ever the warrior, had murdered them all including the flame-haired one who had dealt the final blow. That corpse lay beside her with one limb in the fire, burned away and a bastard sword firmly embedded in his neck.

She was beautiful, laid over the rug. Her billowing cloak, that he'd spent many nights curled against, covered her. Only her arm stretched out toward the door, clawing at the rug. Her blue eyes were open as if waiting for him to return. Jeor could not bare to approach... Instead, he moved over to the crib expecting to find the corpse of his child either frozen or slain. _Wildlings_ spared no one.

The crib was empty.

Jeor spun around, dropping his sword. “Where is he?” he asked of his man, who had tears sliding down his face and into his thick, winter beard. “Where is my son!” Jeor demanded. His man shook his head, gripped by shock.

The clatter of the Valyrian steel on stone woke the child hiding in his dead mother's robes. The infant let out a startled cry, wriggling helplessly.

Both men turned to the Lady's corpse. Jeor fell to his knees and with shaking hands, folded back the fur. Beneath, he found Jorah – warm and pink, screaming at the light. Jeor gathered Jorah up in his arms, letting the tiny thing clutch onto his armour.

###  **THE NARROW SEA**

“Is that what happened?”

“So the story goes,” Tyrion replied. He and Missandei were sat against the door with one of her embroidered shawls draped over them. They had been there for hours, watching the moon, listening to the rain – talking about nothing. At some point the conversation had drifted to Ser Jorah Mormont. Tyrion recanted the famous story of his birth, best he could remember it. “Actually,” he added, “with Margaery Tyrell marrying my nephew, that makes Mormont the king's uncle by marriage.”

“And your – brother?”

He scrunched his face up. Tyrion had consumed too much wine for complex royal family trees. “I – guess. I'd not really thought about it. Neither has he, I imagine. If he even knows. He's been away from Westeros for many years. Don't say anything,” he begged Missandei. “My face is ruined enough. Being related to a Lannister is not a Northern ambition.”

“He left that life behind him.”

“I believe he did.” Tyrion agreed. “An odd man by any measure. Packed up and left. Followed his heart straight into ground.”

Missandei was not certain why she and the dwarf were marooned on the floor of her cabin. Neither of them were ready to face the crew or Varys. In truth, she would rather stand before her old master than the Spider. Missandei did not care for the way he looked at her. He was  _threatening._ Silent. She did not speak his language. The storm was a blessing. It gave everyone an excuse to hide. “The queen forgave him.”

Tyrion caught her eye. She had used an unusual tone. “You do not think she should have? He saved her life. Many times.”

“A thief may protect his gold – that does not make him an honest man.”

“Wise,” Tyrion complimented. “I spent a lot of time with Mormont.”

“When he kidnapped you...”

“I am not certain it was a successful kidnapping. Let's call it – _travelling_. He barely spoke but when he did it was of his queen. Mormont has more devotion than sense. It will get him killed one day. If you're going to reproach the old fool for something let it be his brooding manner or lack of conversation.” He'd actually managed to make Missandei smile again. “Talking is my talent, if only I could muster such eloquence in Valyrian. Despite your best efforts I am a poor student. It's not Mormont that troubles you, is it?”

She lowered her gaze. The rain beat harder against the window leaking through the wood, carving a passage into her cabin. “It is dangerous for a queen to-”

“Love?” Tyrion offered. “It's dangerous for anyone. Better she love a loyal knight she can never have than a rival ruler who intends to overthrow her crown. He is a simple man. That's a gift, believe me. In King's Landing you can spend a year figuring out what someone wants and by then they've changed their mind. Those are dangerous men and we will meet plenty of them. Mormonts are exactly as their name suggests – large, strong and direct. Daenerys is his  _ raison d'être _ ...”

“He wants to _bed_ her,” Missandei added flatly, as if it were a slight to his character.

For someone so well travelled in the world, he found her ignorance of human nature amusing. “Most every man that sees our queen wants the same thing,” he pointed out. “There are brothels from Qarth to Skagos with pale-haired whores in Dothraki robes. Or the semblance of Dothraki robes... The man has a great deal of faults but I'll forgive him that.”

“You want to bed her as well!”

“Perhaps. I wouldn't!” he quickly assured her. “She's a beautiful woman. Very unusual. The only person on this boat that I'm certain has no interest is Varys.”

“What about the Unsullied?”

“You don't need a cock to want something.”

“And what does your friend Varys want?”

“ _My_ friend?” Tyrion wished he had more wine but considering Illyrio's men poisoned most of it, he'd decided to teetotal. “Peace. He says that he works for the good of the realm and I believe him.”

“The realm of Westeros,” Missandei clarified.

“Well, there is not a lot that can be done for Essos. It is a vast place with ancient problems. Blood and violence bring it to heel. Look to the Dothraki. Our queen will find Westeros a very different beast. The last Targaryen was murdered with good cause. Daenerys must be careful. A bonfire and raging words are not the answer.”

“Is this why Ser Jorah broods?”

“No. He's from the North. That's what they do. Stoic types. Too much ice in their veins.”

###  **CITADEL – OLD TOWN**

Gilly's torch flared against a stray current of air. The depths of the  _Hightower_ reminded her of the nameless forests beyond the Wall. In place of trees she found dwarfed columns, barely matching her height. They held up the ceiling as if they were grown to do so. The closer Gilly held the flame to the surface of the stone, the more light it drank in, consuming the warmth.

As she wandered the voices of the other guests faded away. With every turn the structure expanded, branching out into another cluster of hallways and low rooms impossible to make out in the dark. Rats startled, scampering off. She looked through the flame at what lay ahead. Another set of steps led her deeper. More of the same. Columns. Tunnels. Rats. Was this death? A maze of shadows?

A man.

Gilly gasped. The torch slammed into the floor sending a shower of embers over his feet. The old man knelt slowly. His clothes creaked around him, as worn as their master. White hair fell in waves around his face, smooth and elegant with the memory of nobility. His skin was cracked and soft though his features had once been handsome.

“Easy to lose your way, down here.” The man offered Gilly her torch. “The labyrinth is designed to ensnare the curious.”

“I – beg your pardon – sir.” Gilly replied as Sam had taught, dipping her head in a bow. _Flattery always._ “I was...”

He lifted the torch to her face. Gilly shied away from the light. “Very young,” he commented, “but you have old eyes.”

Slowly she reached for the torch, taking it from him. He allowed it, lingering inside the circle of light it cut in the darkness. “Do you know where you are, girl?”

“The Hightower,” said Gilly. “The man on the boat explained.”

“Ah yes, the boats...” The old man set his hands behind his back, turning in offer to walk with her. Instead of heading back towards the entrance, the man led her further into the tunnels. “They come every day, full to the crack with travellers after a spectacle. Instead they find a lonely tower in the bay with a history no one remembers. And a view. Mostly they come for the view.”

“It's different,” Gilly touched the black stone wall beside them as they walked. “This bit of the tower. It reminds me of-”

“Of what?” he prompted, when she stopped.

“The Wall, in the North.”

“You are a long way from home, my dear, though you may be correct. Legend has that it was built by the same Stark. Bran the Builder. You do not know of the Starks? I assumed you were from the North.” His suspicion flickered.

“I ran from home when I was small. There isn't much of anything I know about the North. Saw the Wall though. I'll always remember it. Great big thing. Impossible.”

“I should have liked to see the Wall before the end. Here.” The old man stopped. A wall at the back of the room was littered with shallow holes as if enormous bees had been at it. “May I?” he took the torch and held it in one of the depressions. The stone had been shaped into the shadow of a face. There were dozens of them. “This tower has been used by many over the centuries for what, who could say? There are dragon bones in the Southern crypt and a pile of obsidian to your waist beneath. A spring wells up in the centre of the rock with tiny, glowing worms I have never seen anywhere else but the waters kill those that drink. It is surrounded by fragments of many who tried.”

Gilly observed the man carefully. He was old but strong. His tunic was silver. The warm cape tied across his shoulders was the colour of fresh cut pine. She became aware that she was alone in the tunnels with him. “Thank you, for showing.” Gilly withdrew the last fragments of coin Sam had given her. She opened her hand to him, offering it. “It is all I have for your trouble.”

The old man stared at the three coins in her shaking palm. “Who sent you?” he hissed, stepping away from her. Anger rose in his eyes. His voice lifted with the tone of his previous youth. “Who sent you?!” The man demanded.

“I – don't?” Gilly looked down at the coins in her hand. “I did not mean to offend.”

“I always knew that someone would come but I did not expect the coward to hire out my killer. An infant girl no less. The world has no duty or honour left!”

“Killer? You mistake me.”

He reached into her hand and held up the  _Braavosi_ coin, turning it against the firelight. “Valar morghulis. Valar dohaeris. Leyton Hightower shall do  _neither_ .” A dagger appeared in his hand, withdrawn from the folds of his robes. “Who?” he asked again.

Gilly backed toward the darkness, away from the blade. “Please sir. The coin was payment to my husband for work done with the maesters. We've come from The Wall to study in the citadel. Please.”

The frightened child lifted both her hands. There was nothing of her but bone and a simple dress. Faceless men killed fast yet he was still alive. “What could a couple of Northern brats wish to learn in the citadel?”

“My husband studies to be maester to Lord Commander Snow. He sent us here.”

“Maesters and men of The Watch have no wives.” He raised the dagger to her.

“I know. He's not supposed to have me. Please... I have a son.” The man pinned her against the strange, greasy stone. “Please. Sir. Please...” Gilly felt the sharp edge against her throat. Her vein throbbed at the blade. It was cold, like ice on her skin. “Please...”

Leyton Hightower considered the girl. “Which maester?” he asked.

“Marwyn. He agreed to take us.”

There was a long pause before Leyton withdrew his sword. He tossed the coin into the air, catching it easily. “Trust that cunt to have one of these. Probably snatched it from the dead fingers of an assassin. Gave it to you as a joke, I expect.” He offered the coin back to Gilly. “You be careful flashing this thing around. It'll get you killed.”

Gilly held the offending item to her chest. She was of a mind to toss it into the sea.

“I apologise,” he held out his hand, which she took.

“Is this your tower?” He nodded and Gilly continued. “It's damaged. At the front. Some of the walls have collapsed into the sea.”

“Dragons,” Leyton replied. “Their fire returned the rock to its natural form. There's nothing like it, they say, the breath of a dragon. There'll be trouble now they've returned to the world. You didn't know? Three of the beasts hatched and their whore of a mother marauds around Essos turning cities to rubble. She's coming to avenge her father's throne and when she does there will be war. Safest place for you is the North. You should return there. Raise a few sons in the snow. Keep wild horses. Live quietly.”

“The North is not safe,” Gilly replied. “That's why the Lord Commander sent us here.”

###  **ABOVE THE SHADOW LANDS – ESSOS**

Jorah shrugged out of the long robe and laid it over the queen. She was shaking, sound asleep as the night wore on. The moon was high, pretending to be a star. Jorah did not mind the cold air against his skin.

_Drogon_ was singing. It was a soft baritone – a mix of chirps and undulating rumbles. The dragon's efforts had been humours when it was small, hopping around in the  _Red Waste_ with a drizzle of smoke, now they were beautiful.

“Steady on...” Jorah insisted, as _Drogon_ turned into the wind. No wonder the Targaryens had conquered the world. They could cross it in a heartbeat. It was smaller from up here. The boundaries between villages insignificant. Even the seas became lakes and the mountains a crease in the parchment.

At first Jorah had thought the land on the right was covered in ice. Realising that was impossible he looked again and realised that it was  _ghost grass_ . Endless miles of it.  _Drogon_ was curving his flight, sinking gradually toward it.

“Khaleesi – wake up...” he squeezed her shoulder gently.

 


	38. Ghost Grass

 

 

###  **HIGHTOWER**

###  **CITADEL – OLD TOWN**

Lord Leyton escorted the young woman out from the ancient stone carcass, through the crowds of meandering tourists pressing up against the fortress walls and toward a precarious lift system knotted inside the tower. Hightower's heart was a hollow shaft webbed with Valyrian steel. It seethed through the walls, emerging and vanishing into a network of pipes. Its pride was a weirwood platform held by four thick chains as wide as a soldier's arm. Suspended in the darkness, it shifted as Gilly stepped aboard, swaying silently over nothing. Her stomach turned. Gilly reached desperately for the bare wall.

“Careful,” Lord Leyton knocked her hand from the stone. “Or you shall lose that limb to the tower. It would not be the first.” Alarming hues on the wall confirmed his warning. The building was vengeful like the gods.

They were joined by a team of men, naked to the waist, who worked the chains. Enormous, rusted cogs groaned to life as they pulled down, shedding grease into the abyss. The men climbed the silver links, using their weight and the elusive force of the world to shift the impossible system. Gilly clutched the Lord's arm instead as the platform rose. _Man's magic_ , she thought.

He patted her hand reassuringly. “Do not fear, child. This has stood for hundreds of years and it will remain long after we have wandered from this world into the next, dragging our bloody stumps. Oh it sounds dire, full of want and pain but that's what keeps it strong.”

Gilly knew a thing or two about old things. They broke like anything else. The only promise of life was death.

As the platform neared the top, a dull roar filled the air, drowning out the screech of steel. It sounded like a storm howling at the walls.

“The flame, atop the tower.” Lord Hightower explained the noise. “It is a beacon for the kingdom's ships. You can see it three days out to sea, all the way across the the Whispering Sound to the Arbor. My ancestors took the sun and trapped in a cage, or so the story goes. Wars will come. Night fall. The Winter snows as far as Dorne. That flame will keep. It will be the last light in the realm.”

“Fires die, why not this one?” she asked.

“Wildfire,” he replied. The lift moved smoothly, gaining speed as it climbed. Doorways in the rock streamed by, one after the other, mere flares against the darkness. The tower was as endless as its flame. “The maesters in the city produce a kind liquid fire, very rare and outlawed in the realm. Is is fed below the city in pipes, under the harbour and up into this tower. One day, if you find yourself standing beside the pyre, look into its centre. You'll find a green flicker where the liquid ignites.”

“Isn't it dangerous to stand so close?”

He took the collar of his cloak, moving it aside to reveal melted, pale flesh upon his lower neck. “Very.” He confirmed. “Wildfire has a vengeance of its own. Some of the maesters recently produced a batch for the capital. It was used unlawfully against the Baratheon usurper and never again. There are practices too wicked, even for war.”

The lift stopped. A passage near the top arched from the stone. It was protected with a cage door more common to dog pens and opened by another pair of men, this time ornately dressed in uniforms similar to the Lord's. They bowed low, staying down as Lord Hightower strode into the hallway.

This level made of pale stone, polished to the point of reflection. Gilly saw a ghost of herself on every surface. Metal torch holds were staggered along it, worked into the form of vines. Some had false thorns, others buds. They strangled the torches, biting into the blackened wood while the end of the passage remained open to the sea where the water and sky became an indistinguishable glare. As they drew near enough to hear the waves, Hightower diverted into his study. It was a strange room, nestled in the tower as a gull makes its home precariously on the rocks.

“So many books,” Gilly observed. The room was curved, running around the outside of the tower's natural form. Gracefully arched windows let the salt in while heavy wooden shutters were folded flat against the stone, closed often against storms that lurked in off the sea waging seasonal assaults on the coast. The interior was devoted to knowledge. Scrolls, books and curiosities from around the world. Hightower sat in the centre, hemmed in at the head of an enormous cedar table with a tame crow cleaning his feathers on a golden perch. “Are you certain that you're not a maester?”

“No indeed. Too many rules. I'd be thrown out before I earned by first link. Come in, closer. I'll not raise a hand at you again. I have been expecting a blade at my throat for so long that I forgot my manners. All you did was surprise me, child.”

Gilly nodded, accepted the offered chair and tried to befriend the crow but it snapped at her, making the Lord laugh heartily. She could not stop her eyes from roaming the shelves. Everything was new to her. All her life it had been snow. Fire. Pine. Cold. Civilisation was fascinating. She understood Sam's longing for it. “You live here?”

“Yes, I live here. This pile of rock and ash has been my keep for two decades.”

“I know what that's like. Not the castle part. The staying in one place. All my sisters lived in a building the size of this room.”

“How many?”

“Twenty six. We had – different mothers.” She'd given away too much. Hightower's gaze tore through her shallow narrative. “I'm from further north than I said before.”

“I thought as much. No matter. Those things are of more concern to the North. We get all sorts scratching around our city and you are far from the worst of them. Can you read the common tongue?”

“A little.”

Lord Hightower rustled in one of the desk's drawers until he extracted a curl of parchment. He laid it in front of her, holding both edges to stop it tumbling away in the breeze. “From Lord Commander Thorne, three nights ago,” he confirmed, when Gilly lifted her head in confusion. “Your husband has a new Commander, after Snow's demise. I direct you to this-” his thumb tapped a line of scrawled text.

“The King heads South?”

“King in North. Snow did not stay dead. An alarming fashion of late. Tell me, what _exactly_ did he send your husband to the citadel for? It is not to be a maester, for he could have easily summoned one. You have seen the city, there are thousands of maesters without a castle to call home.”

“Ser, you would not believe if I said...”

“Say it anyway. I am not a ser, I am a Lord.”

“My Lord, it is the dead that concern my husband's Commander – King?”

“Be wary calling him such in these parts. The King is Tommen Baratheon, first of his name.”

Gilly paid not heed to those that named themselves king. “Their bones are rising in the North, picked from their graves of snow. Whitewalkers stir armies to march on Castle Black with corpses made soldier, Wildlings and Crows, there is no difference when they are dead. Snow asked my husband to come here for information about the last war. He does not think that we can win and asks only for assistance. At the moment, we are alone and the records are buried. It is as if the maesters have buried history and re-drafted it. That is what my husband says.”

“So the ravens were true...” Hightower leaned back in his chair, thought deepening the wrinkles around his sharp eyes. They were the eyes of a bird, used to sitting to sitting above the world as if it were a stage. “Northerns. They are always spinning colourful tales. No one south of Riverrun places stock in their warnings. They mutter endlessly about winter and pray to their blood trees. We make furniture of their gods while you have no gods at all.”

“My gods are the snow and heat of a fire.”

“I realised something was amiss when Castle Black opened its gates for Wildling folk. Those men have been killing your lot since before there was a wall. Snow thought them better alive than part of the dead – yes? Wise bastard. He's made several powerful men black with rage. If he is not dead now he soon will be again.”

“The war is real. I swear.” Gilly insisted. “My husband killed a walker. The demon shattered in front of me as if it were made of snow. They are not whispers or stories. I'll swear on anything you like.”

“Take some advice from an old man. The more you pledge to swear, the falser you ring.” He left his chair and moved to a nearby shelf where he dragged books roughly out of their home, discarding them on the ground with puffs of dust. Concealed behind was a compartment. Hightower withdrew a strange, smooth rock with odd markings. He placed it in Gilly's hands. It was heavy and warm. “Dragon egg...” he explained. “I found it myself, abandoned in the labyrinth with a few Targaryen keepsakes. Forty years and no one believed. A 'pretty rock' they called it. Now there are living dragons in the world, ridden by a child. I can't promise that what I know is true but I can tell you the stories I've heard about the last great war and the demons of ice.”

“Why are you helping me? No one helps unless they want something.”

“My time is coming to an end. Yours is beginning. Besides, I do want something. I want peace for my children and theirs. There can be no peace if the dead come for us. Either you are a liar, in which case I lose nothing or you speak true and perhaps an old man makes a difference.”

*~*~*

Gilly perched at the back of the boat, turned to the Hightower with the wind kicking at her hair. Her dress was weighed down with a bag of coin, gifted to her by the Lord. Around her people laughed and chattered in a dozen languages. Their words spilled like the salt spray over her face. She was numb to it. All she could think of was Old Man Hightower, bound by the walls.

###  **UNKNOWN SETTLEMENT**

###  **GHOST GRASS – THE SHADOW LANDS**

Pale stalks brushed against the dragon's hips.  _Drogon_ bent his knees, placing the long, clawed finger from the tip of his wing into the soft ground to support the awkward stance. Jorah and Daenerys slid over the engorged curve of his stomach before falling the last feet.

“Seven fucking gods...” Jorah complained, rolling over, covered in sand. It streamed out of his clothes like water full of shell and bits of bone. Daenerys was a pile of silver beside him. “Can you please teach him how to land?”

“He landed well,” Daenerys defended. The ghost grass broke her fall. Bundles of waxy stems had folded backwards, smooth under her hands. They grew strongly out of grey sand, towering over her and Ser Jorah in an impenetrable forest that stretched for the shore to the mountains, thriving until the snowline. Aside from _Drogon_ and the moon, the grass was all they could see. “Were those ruins we saw?”

“Aye,” Jorah nodded. “Behind us. We should get out of this weed.” It was already unfurling, undamaged by their fall, seeking revenge. He took his queen's hand, pulling her from it but no sooner had she moved, her cloak caught in the grass and tossed her carelessly back to the ground.

“Dammit!” Daenerys raged like one of her dragons. For every move she made, the grass gripped at her – latching on as though it had a thousand tiny hooks. One side was smooth, the other rough. It shivered and whispered, then bit and consumed making ghosts of all that entered.

“This is why they call it a weed,” Jorah explained. “The Dothraki cannot ride through it. The stems bloody their horses, blind their men and starve their khalasar. It's no good for anything.” He took the robe he lent her back, folded it and laid it over his shoulder. In its place he drew the frozen sword. “We have something similar in the North only purple and shorter. The Lords require the farmers to keep their fields clear of it. You can always tell abandoned lands by the mirage of purple. It is a beautiful death.”

She followed. The pair of them looked like common peasants. Worse than peasants. Dressed in the style of _Asshai_ anyone they come across might mistake them for practitioners of magic and other vile things. Slathered in blood and ash did not help proclaim their innocence.

_Drogon_ turned in tight circles, stamping the ground down like a wolf, making a nest of it.  _Thud, thud, thud._

“Do you think he'll be all right?”

Jorah was amused. “He is a dragon, khaleesi. Your time is better spent worrying for us.” He cut through the ghost grass, knocking a path for them. The ice was sharper than steel, hissing against the stems.

“You've kept it then,” Daenerys noted.

“ _Snowflake_?”

“And named it...”

“No choice. Asshai was short on weaponry.”

“I don't care for it.”

“I promise I'll throw it away, soon as I find something better. Until then...” he swung it again. More grass fell. When he tripped over the first abandoned stone, a small hand took his shoulder.

“Careful Ser, wouldn't want to break that pretty sword...”

The ruins were not particularly impressive. “Foundations of a temple – or palace,” Jorah offered, as they climbed the few crumbled steps to the elevated platform. Broken columns dusted the edges. Mostly it was bare, hundred of feet of stripped rock. They could see  _Drogon_ from the top. He had settled down, folded his wings over his face and fallen asleep.

“Let's hope he doesn't set fire to anything during the night.” Jorah slid the sword into his belt and paced over the blushing rock. They may as well have been in a desert. “No water. No food. What we need is a raven,” Jorah sighed, laying down the spare robe over the stone, inviting Daenerys to sit. “The others must think us dead.”

She shook her head. “No. They know I'm alive.”

Jorah crouched in front of her. The moonlight accentuated the patterns that covered his skin. Instead of red they appeared silver as though he were one of the decorated walls from Illyrio's home. He was conscious of her gaze and pulled some of the leather straps down to cover his hands. “Did you learn that in a vision?”

Daenerys nodded. “I saw the ships. They were surrounded by tall, broken islands. There was a strong wind on their backs.”

“Stepstones. They made it across the Summer Sea. That puts them perilously close to Westeros. We must hope they hide well.”

“You believe me?”

“Tell me of the time your visions were wrong...”

Daenerys shivered. _She hoped they were wrong._ “Missandei will stay with our plan. She'll lead the Spider and the imp to Braavos. We must find a way to meet them there.” Her gaze drifted to her sleeping dragon. “If only I could explain that to Drogon. Stop...”

Jorah fussed, trying to hide his hands. “I do not like them.”

“That may be so but those markings saved your life, I forbid you to dislike them.”

“As you wish.” He sat on the cold stone instead. The world around them was restless, stirred with the constant scratch of wind through the ghost grass. It was a hollow, desolate sound. A summary of the entire continent.

“On the mountains of Asshai,” Daenerys started softly, turning to Jorah. He would not look at her. “I meant to say-”

“Do not say, khaleesi,” his eyes stayed on the moon.

“Daenerys...” she corrected.

“It is better unsaid.” He assured her, before a small, warm palm pressed to his cheek. This time he tilted his head, finding his queen watching intently. “We will return to your ship soon and then everything will be different.”

“It does not have to-”

“You are a queen moreover a conqueror.” Jorah placed his hand over hers, sliding it away from his face, holding it between his rough paws instead. “If you are to survive the path to the throne, you must be untouchable. Not only a queen but a glimpse of the divine.”

“Dragons take what they-”

“No.” He interrupted again. His eyes were patient. She had so much fire and life rushing through her veins. The blood of old Valyria. Her will was power. Power shared a blade with destruction. “Westeros must _give_ you the crown. If you are worthy of it, they will lay it at your feet. Beg you to rule. You cannot take love or devotion or loyalty. They are earned. Your father forgot what your brother never understood.”

“I saw my father,” Daenerys whispered. “In the flames. Varys was there.”

Jorah nodded in concern. “Yes he was.”

“I think he wanted my father dead.”

“The realm wanted your father dead. He was not a good king. That does not excuse what was taken from you or the slaughter of your family. Varys works to restore you to the throne though we may never know the whole truth of why. He is a man construct of secrets. I fear if we tug at one the whole man might come apart.”

“Do you trust him – with my life?”

Jorah thought hard on that. He had known Varys for a great many years and yet when he considered the facts, he did not know the man at all. “No. I trust him more than the next man and that is all we can hope. We need his talent. Without the Spider, Westeros is an insurmountable wall. What?” he added softly.

Daenerys had seen Westeros. Walked across the throne room. Stood in its ashes. “You are so sure that I will rule.”

“I would move the world to make it so.”

Despite his protest, she leaned towards him, resting her head on his shoulder. Her hair rustled against his back like the ghost grass on the ruin. “Move it where?”

Jorah ran his hand slowly down the queen's naked arm. The coarse leather ties grated against her skin. He had done the same, those first nights in kharl Drogo's camp when she sat at the edge of the fire wishing for the touch of flame. His Northern silence was her comfort. “You are afraid of what you may find in Westeros...” he whispered.

“I know well enough what I will find. I fear only what you shall make of it. Westeros is your home. It is one thing to wage war under my banner in a foreign land but what happens when you see he faces of your friends on the other side of a sword?”

“The same thing that happens to anything else on the edge of my blade.”

Daenerys lifted her head while lowering his. She looked deep into his eyes, searching them. Dany fell too deep. They were endless pits of ice and hope – of oceans and skies of –

His lips claimed hers, kissing her hard despite all he'd said before. He felt her moan in soft surprise, then wrap her arms around his neck and drag him closer. Her lips parted, allowing soft indulgence of the impossible. Jorah knew exactly what she had meant to say on the volcanic plains. It was buried in her kiss.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” said Jorah, pulling away. “I meant what said before.” It was as difficult to untangle her from around his neck as it was to walk through the grass. “What is this?” he asked, distracted by two long cuts running up the inside of Daenerys' wrists. She withdrew from him, pulling the cloak down. “Daenerys, what happened to your arms? Was it that witch that kept you?” Fury rose in his voice.

“Steady... It was Quaithe...” she whispered, holding her arms beside his.

Jorah looked between the markings on his flesh and the cuts in her skin. “What have you done? This is blood magic. There is  _always_ a price. I'll not have you pay it so – so carelessly.”

“Ser, what you will and won't have is of no matter. The price is paid. You are alive. The ink, as they say, is dry.”

“That is something my father would say, if I spoke of my mother.”

“A Westerosi philosophy. The man that cared from my brother and I when we were very small would say it every time we cried for that which we could not change. My brother cried often.” She fell silent. Distant. Had she killed her brother too? _'Please. Please!'_ His hapless pleadings cemented her will.

###  **SOMEWHERE IN THE NARROW SEA**

_Vacant eyes stared at they abyss. Things of the water came to feast on the wrinkled flesh. Biting. Tearing. Pulling away that which makes a man until there was only bone. Illyrio's bones, sinking to nowhere. Tussled about the unmarked mass grave of every sailors' nightmare. The eyes of his friend. His mute pleas whispered at nothing._

“Sorry, am I disturbing you?”

Varys broke his gaze from the rain on the window. The imp was at his door, holding a candle. The raven waiting for his message had lost interest and had retreated to an alcove in ceiling of Varys' cabin, its head turned in sleep.

“Not at all,” Varys lied, setting his quill down. Its ink had dried in a puddle on the parchment. “Though I am curious to know what lures you out so late and in such ill weather, no less.” The imp was soaked through.

“Advice,” he replied, climbing awkwardly into the chair opposite. Hot wax ran over his hand, congealing with his skin.

“Never had much luck with fire, did you?”

“No indeed,” Tyrion replied, picking it off. “No indeed... Nice ah – bird.” He pointed at the raven trying to hide.

“Advice, you say?” Varys helped Tyrion. He held the failed parchment over an open flame, letting it catch and curl.

“It is about a woman.”

Even Varys had to straighten up in amusement. “I fear I am ill qualified to render such advice.”

“No, I don't mean _that_. I'm perfectly competent at _that_.”

“Tyrion...”

“Missandei.”

“You surprise me.”

“It is you that surprises her. Have you nothing to say on the subject? She is the queen's most loyal friend and if she dou-”

“I know exactly who she is,” Varys assured him. Those black, spider eyes of his settled on Tyrion. They were calm – still. Entirely unreachable. “What would you have had me do? Hand you over to Cersei for a small fortune and use the proceeds to buy our queen the throne? You are worth more to me alive than to Cersei dead. Illyrio should have known that before he made the deal.”

“I-” Tyrion frowned with confusion. “Thank you... Compliments do not sit well on your lips but I appreciate them all the same.”

“If Illyrio was prepared to make a deal with the Crown then he was a man with a price. Cheaply bought men are what bring down usurpers the world over. Missandei understands what I did and why. I believe that you have come on behalf of yourself.”

Tyrion reached forward, playing with the candle that had burned him earlier. Fidgeting was an unbreakable habit. His father had tried to beat it out of him to the detriment of his belt. “You have a plan, one that reaches further than Braavos. Why have you not shared it? Do you not trust me, after all we have survived?”

“A wise man once taught me never to share secrets with men who couple with wine.”

“Then I shall give up wine.”

“The sun will rise in the West before you divorce the grape. Let us speak of Braavos instead, my friend. We'll near its shores soon enough.”

###  **BENEATH THE HIGHTOWER**

###  **CITADEL – OLD TOWN**

A young man, more bone than flesh, knelt by the pool's side. He withdrew a glass vial from his robes, removed the cork stopper and dipped its lip below the surface. When it was full, he whispered a prayer to the many faced god. His words sank into the black stone, melding with ancient screams.

*~*~*

“Enter.” Lord Leyton Hightower sat at his desk, scrawling letters to a selection of his trusted friends. He'd released a few ravens ready for flight. They swooped around the room, endlessly switching windows, shedding black feathers everywhere. The girl had given him a renewed sense of purpose. Word from a Commander at the Wall may go unnoticed but his name, Hightower, held weight. “Ah, you are early,” he added, when the boy presented a tray with lunch. “Leave it there – can you not see that I am busy? The wine. Yes, you may bring that. Where is the other boy?”

“The kitchens, my Lord,” the servant boy poured the wine into a goblet and set it into the Lord's outstretched hand. “The cook has taken him on as apprentice. Do you wish me to fetch him back?”

Leyton held the wine to his lips. “No. Never mind it now.”

“As you wish. Shall I?” The boy nodded at the piles of discarded parchment.

“Fodder for the flames,” he agreed, sipping the wine. “Set those books back too, before you leave.”

The boy went about his work while the Lord continued with his letter. He started with the books, sliding them reverently into place. He lingered at a stuffed bird and again at an obsidian arrow. So many things for one man.

Leyton's hand spasmed and clenched around the quill. It started to vibrate. The nib, pressed uncontrollably against the paper, snapped off releasing a torrent of black upon the desk. The Lord tried to stop the shaking by holding it firm with his other hand but that, too, shook. Then his heart picked up speed as the poison took hold.

“Boy – _boy!_ ” he tried to shout for assistance but it came as a hoarse whisper – barely scratching the air.

The boy calmly appeared. Instead of helping, he took the goblet and poured the remainder of the wine into the decanter. He plucked the quill from Leyton's hands and burned the parchment in the flame beside. The Lord could only watch. His muscles were frozen. The shaking had stopped. His heart slowed. Pain shot from his shoulder to his wrist with such force he thought himself struck by a blade. A coin was set spinning on the table in front of him. It was the second of its kind that he had seen today. Silver death. Around it spun. Mocking him.

“W-w-who?” Leyton gurgled, as blood ran down his mouth, but the man would not share his secrets, not even with the dead.

The body of Lord Hightower was laid on the ground in front of the fire. A curved blade, tempered by the heat, sliced through the flesh around his face. Slowly, the skin was pulled back and the sagging flesh pealed from the muscle. The rest was given to the flames, piece by piece. The carpet too.

When the servants came in the evening to prepare the Lord for bed, they found the old man at his desk, restlessly at the parchment – as was his manner. They did not notice the ravens. The creatures refused to come near their master, not even for the want of bread. Without a sound, a lord had become no one.

###  **SOMEWHERE IN THE NARROW SEA**

The bird did not wish to go.

Varys stood in front of the open window, taking a beating from the remains of the storm. He could see it dying in front. There was a strip of a stars on the horizon and though flares of light flickered inside the cloud, their anger was far away. His crow pecked at his hands, drawing blood. It wrestled with him, fighting against Varys' hold. The last time he had released the creature it flew straight back into his cabin, drying itself on Varys' bed, much to his disdain. It was not until he threw the bird from the ship that the poor thing was forced to spread its wings and take flight.

It journeyed South, high above the water where it picked up a slipstream, ducking into the wind. There were other ravens flung about in the turbulence with messages tied to their ankles. The darkest secrets of the kingdom were suspended in this unseen world.

Varys' bird did not have far too go. Where desert met the waves, it darted low – navigating date palms and mud-built fortresses until it came upon _Sunspear._

 


	39. A Valley Hoard

 

###  **GLASS WOOD – THE NORTH**

“Edd, the fuck you doing?”

“Aye?”

“With that shovel.”

Edd examined his shovel with an air of confusion. There was nothing amiss with it or the snow. He was a fair enough distance from the camp – plenty of tree-like things around making a struggle out of life, still within sight of the fire. Nothing wrong with it at all. “What's it look like?” he barked back at his man. _Boy_. Under all those black rags and sunken cheeks he was only a few days into manhood. A doe in the pines, waiting a Lord's arrow... Edd lost heart just looking at him.

The young crow had a shovel, same as Edd's. “Shovellin' shit.”

“Well done. You'll go far, you will.” Edd set about his work, plunging the sharp edge of the spade into the virgin snow which had collected in sweeping, stagnant rivers – the ghostly children of Winter's wind. Edd liked to amuse himself in his work, pretending it were bone corpses below the blade and their heads rolling away. He struck at it hard. That's what he was going to do to them dead fucks.

Their petty camp was a freezing oddity. No one ranged beyond the _Wall_ any more. All the gates were closed. The locks had been welded and the hinges too. Edd and his party trekked beside the beastly front of ice, travelling toward the _Nightfort_ . If the walkers were coming, they were going to need use of that big black gate and all its magic. _'Go to the fort,'_ Snow has said. So here they were, with Thorne's grace, picking through the frozen world, quiet as foxes. Hell, old cunt probably wished them to die but Edd had other plans. He was going to spite the gods, old and new. Edd was going to _live_.

The _Wall_ cast a shadow over them. It stole the afternoon light making the days short. A wind came off the top, caught by its enormous structure and tunnelled down as if from an ocean. It created unnatural snowdrifts behind the last pines, huge cleaves of ice that had fallen from the _Wall_ and abandoned buildings. Any man foolish enough to fall in one vanished to their waist and had to be dug out. Everything about the land was set on murder – first chance it got.

Edd gave the _Wall_ a reverent nod. Imagining what was beyond that boundary of ice and knowing for sure were two very different things. The brothers fresh from _Castle Black_ loitered around its buttress during the morning light, chucking stones and plucking winter roses from the unstable facade. Edd forbade them. _'Tempt the gods on your own watch,'_ he'd say, _'not in the company of my men.'_ The gods must be drunk if he had men in his charge.

“That's low work, that is.” The young crow replied, watching Edd hack away at the snow. “I'll do it. Sit with them men there an' rest. They like your stories. Bit o' fear, keep 'em true.”

“You can join me instead.” Edd thrust the shovel back into the ground. “Always shovel your own shit. Low. High. Everyone's responsible for their shit. You think a Lord's arse smells any better than ours? 'course it bloody doesn't. We're all the same, ain't we? Fodder for the wolves. Or worse.”

“You mean them wights?”

“Yes boy, I mean the dead. I'd tell you to pray that you never see them but even the gods know they're coming. Doubt they'll knock politely on that there pretty wall of ours.”

“Why the Nightfort? Isn' it empty an' all?”

“It is. Thorne says we are to send men there soon.”

“Men from where? The realm's at war. There are no men that ain' fighting for their 'ouse or stealin' from what's left.”

“It's not for us to worry about the men. You worry about your shit.”

A silence passed between them. The _Glass Wood_ was an uncomfortable place. In truth it was two forests, one new with tall, narrow saplings and the other ancient. In ages lost, ten thousand years ago, a storm ran over the land without a wall to stop it. Its air froze those pines solid – buried them in an instant and left them silent in an ice prison. When the summers came and the snow receded, their corpses emerged. Now they stood between the living wood as broken ghosts shattering at the touch of a raven's wing.

“S'it always so quiet?”

“What? Yes. Winter is quiet. So should you fucking be.” Edd sighed when he saw the boy dismayed. “Where you from then? It's an odd tone your words 'ave.”

“These aren' my first words.” He pointed the shovel at himself. “Dornish.”

“From the fucking desert – sand and such?”

“Not all of Dorne is sand. I live in the mountains, high up, sea below – hollow kings on the other side.”

“What's a Dornish boy doing at the miserable Wall? You murder a Lord or summthin'?”

“No, watched it 'appen. Men in gold coats. Came in the night, they did. Up the mountain path, set fire to our watch. Our buildings ain' like yours, all stone an' rock. We build from wood. It burned all night – my home, the forest too. Sisters, brothers, parents – murdered by the men. I woke up in a garden of ash. Twelve years on, Wall. Better here. Less fire.”

“Name?”

The boy shrugged. “Don' remember my name. Man at the Watch signed me as _Cub_.”

Edd blinked slowly in astonishment. Someone had a sense of bloody humour. That's the last thing they needed. Seven hells and all the rest. “I ain't calling you 'Cub'.”

“I don' mind it,” Cub insisted. “When I live out the Winter, you can change it. Cubs grow into many things. Who can say wha'?”

“Grow into a pine tree for all the good it'll do ya. I'd rather toss my body over the Wall than endure more half-wit philosophy. Back to work. Dragon's arse!” Edd shook his hand violently, grimacing. His naked skin had stuck to a nail, frozen well and good until it tore his flesh clean off. By the time his blood hit the slow, it was ice.”

“Said I so, should use them gloves as we was told.”

Edd would have beat the little shit to death himself except he had a point. “Shovel yer shit, yeah?”

###  **THE SKIES ABOVE YI TI**

A whole day on dragon-back passed. It was rough riding, with the sun bearing down. Jorah and the queen draped cloaks over their heads while the wind did its best to rip them away.

The burned lands of the South had been replaced by dense forests, clinging to brutal cliffs like those they'd seen at the far end of the world. A few hours ago those had given way to more sand, ochre this time with red stains where rivers once flowed. Long dead. A new range of mountains thrust out of the mess. They were unmistakably red – a hue that deepened to the colour of cheap wine as the sun failed. These were the _Mountains of the Morn_ , the first peaks to find the sun. The _Yi Ti_ worshipped them as the gateway to the world of death and surely they were right. Beyond them was sorrow and terror. Land dragons feared to tread.

“Braavos is not this way.” The queen's words were closer to a question.

“It is not.” His cloak tried to escape again. Jorah renewed his grip. Only his eyes were visible between the folds of black fabric. Daenerys was the same aside from a few stray strands of silver hair.

“Our lives are in the clutch of a dragon,” Jorah added, running his hand over its scales. Some were larger than the spread of his hands. They resembled cooled lava, cracked but smooth.

“Why do you eye our right flank with such disdain, Ser? I see the way you shun the mountains. They cannot be worse than what we have faced.”

She was right. His steel eyes often lingered on those bloody peaks. “I do not mind _Drogon_ heading North but should he decide to dip beyond that range we'll find ourselves at the mercy of half-creatures, murders and gods-know-not-what. That way is death.”

“They are beautiful though, don't you think?”

The mountains' gory colour had shifted to pink. Their snow was gold. Made from quartz, their many broken faces sparkled oddly at the sunset. “All the same, we're best to stay as far away from them as we can.”

_Drogon_ had a different view. Dragons were the lovers of mountains. They played in the shadow of their cliffs, made nests in the screaming caverns and beat their huge wings against the fierce winds that tore through their valleys.

“Drogon – _no!_ ” Daenerys shouted at her child, as the huge body tilted beneath them.

To no effect.

_Drogon_ turned, fell and darted like a fish until they were close enough to the cliffs to see ancient flows of ice locked by folds of rock. Glaciers flowed until they crumbled onto the desert where deep blue pools of water formed oases.

Jorah pushed her flat against the dragon. His arms stretched either side of her, gripping feverishly at dwarfed horns as _Drogon_ banked sharply, suddenly perpendicular to the ground. He could hear the sound of wind against the granite cliffs. Its bitter surface was _inches_ from them when Jorah's hold slipped. They slid across the dragon's back, hundreds of feet in the air, heading towards the inevitable fall.

His boots struggled for purchase. They found it leaving Jorah standing on the dragon's spines, using them like the rungs of a ladder. Dany screamed again. Her defiant grip and Jorah's chest were her only barrier to death. _“Drogon! Drogon!”_

The creature had forgot they were aboard. After the arduous journey the temptation of play was too much.

_Drogon's_ wing clipped the rock, throwing a cloud of dirt over his riders. When the cliff ended in a ravine, the dragon banked in the opposite direction. Ill positioned, Dany and Jorah tumbled between the beast's shoulders leaving the queen tangled in his spines, reclining dangerously between the run of horns down _Drogon's_ back and the curved defensive protrusions above the wings.

Jorah, heavier and with further to fall, rolled straight over the queen, grabbed unsuccessfully at the dragon and then met the air. The queen twisted, reaching instinctively for him. Her hands found his arm. Skin slid against leather. Caught. Gripped tight. For a moment she had him.... Then his weight tested her hold and broke it immediately.

Jorah was gone.

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

 

Jon Stark's army was _exactly_ as Littlefinger had pictured.

A muck of _Wildlings_ filled the number. Their image of terror was disappointing although in fairness he had to concede that the worst of the Freefolk were already dead. He'd half expected a mangy pack of children in tow but instead they presented with a giant, nine feet above the tallest man. A strange thing, a giant. It was intrinsically awkward – like a boy king. All the pieces were there, a crown, a throne, the words – those things did not make a king. It was the same with the giant. Indeed, he was a formidable beast but not a mythical fury from the legends. Shame. Perhaps the _Wall_ was a garden path and Winter naught but a light snow...

“Your brother's army arrives in good time,” Littlefinger nudged his horse so that it walked up beside the queen's. He'd deliberately chosen a shorter beast so that when seated, Sansa towered over him. She did so now, her silver fur trim curving around her neck and tumbling across her shoulder. It made her hair a deeper shade of blood. In all regards, the Stark was dangerous.

“How far away are the Boltons?” she asked.

“Two days. I have heard whispers of their army passing the Grey Bridge. Ramsey caught wind of Snow's army riding to your aid. I made quite sure he knew their number and unique origin.” Behind Littlefinger, the real army shifted. More soldiers arrived from the _Vale_ every hour, pouring out from the woods. Their camp was a city, three times what the Boltons could muster. The battle had to begin soon. Logistics was the art behind war. An army needed feeding and with _Winterfell_ a ruin and its grain stores burned, the men would start to starve inside the week.

“That would have amused him.”

The peace was aggravated by hammering. Behind, on the rise of snow across the front of the Godwood, Sansa had the men erecting a cross – symbol of the Bolton house. All it needed was a skinless man. Littlefinger glanced at it, careful never to pay it too much mind. While Sansa's lust for vengeance was promising, her methods were as frightening as any Northern Lord. Her father never would have given leave to such indulgence. Ned Stark was a man of justice. Sansa was closer to her mother. The women of the river embraced terror. Littlefinger admired that about her even though he understood the limitations of the emotion.

“All the Boltons must die and those that support them,” she hissed at the wind.

“The Boltons, yes. To the other houses you should show mercy. When you are done warring the North has to survive. If we kill all our enemies, their problems become yours.”

His advice tasted bitter so Sansa dug her heels into the horse and trotted out to meet her brother.

*~*~*

“So... What do you think?” Podrick's horse shuffled about. He had named it 'Traitor' after it ran off several times to feed in the wood. Hell it was barely tame and he, a sub-par horseman, was a passenger.

Brienne's beast had the countenance of a statue. Its only movement was the rustle of wind through a thick, tangled mane. “I dislike him. A man does not come from nothing to sit at the head of an army like that without some wickedness.”

“Indeed you have a point. Tyrion spoke oft of him in King's Landing and I met him more than once. He's a dangerous man but he also has an uncommon interest in Queen Sansa's survival – beyond all reason, far as I can tell but what I actually meant was, _'what do you think of Snow's army?'_ We rode up here to have a look.”

Brienne briefly shifted her gaze to the assortment of woeful creatures lining the opposing ridge. They'd begun their descent toward _Winterfell_ , spilling out in undisciplined form. “I wonder at why the North could not defeat the Wildlings, all these hundreds of years.”

Podrick shrugged. “I guess it was more of a part time war than an actual one.” His horse leaned over, nipping at Brienne's despite his objections. “Unruly beast!” he complained. “That's the bastard then,” he added, as Jon Snow rode toward Sansa. “Think he really died out there?”

“His enemies do not debate it.”

“Think I preferred King's Landing.”

“No, you do not,” Brienne assured him.

Podrick thought about that for a little while before finally agreeing. “No, I don't.”

###  **MOUNTAINS OF THE MORN – YI TI**

Daenerys peered over the edge of _Drogon's_ body. Of course there was nothing to see but sand. They'd flown well past where Jorah fell in the few moments she'd spent in shocked silence. The queen searched the barren landscape all the same. She wasn't sure what she hoped to find. A body? A tiny imperfection on the flank of a mountain? Impossible. Quaithe had promised. He could not be dead. The gods forbade it.

“Jorah...?” she whispered, with no expectation of hope.

A bear grumbled below.

Daenerys crawled closer to the edge of _Drogon's_ wing but there was nothing save a harsh rush of air which pushed her back. She blinked away sharp grit from her eyes. “Where are you?”

Jorah dangled from _Drogon's_ paw, easily caught by the creature, mid fall. The dragon seemed to think this was all a wonderful game. “Great big ugly paw!” Jorah yelled, though it was near inaudible. The roar of wind and flap of wings drowned their voices out.

Resigned to his fate of uncomfortable travel, Jorah relaxed, reaching up to wrap his arm around _Drogon's_ ankle. The view was incredible. It wasn't only the mountains to their right, rearing up out of the wasteland – there was an ominous line of buildings approaching. They were great, black mounds of pure vile that looked like they had been ripped out of _Asshai_ and hammered into the sand against their will. Their enormity was staggering. The closest one stood beside the mountain range as a brother, seven-hundred feet of pure malice. It refused the colours of the sunset.

Although he had heard stories of these structures none of the tales mentioned the obvious – that a wall of ice had stretched from the _Mountains of Morn_ , across the front of the _Five Forts_ and ended in the _Bleeding Sea_ . Even from this distance, Jorah could see the unmistakable scars left in the land by the ice. At some point _Essos_ had an ice wall, glaciers and snow fields exactly like the North. Now it was gone leaving the land a devastated graveyard.

The light was dying fast, vanishing far off in the West many seas away. Moments later the mountains were dull. Their shadows had been replaced by a general darkness and the moon, now with a piece slashed out of its side, struggled behind a low-riding bank of clouds, stuck to the curve of the world.

Hours dragged on by before _Drogon_ changed his flight, preparing to land. The dragon circled around one of the forts, edging gently toward the ragged top. Both Jorah and Dany were asleep, lulled away into oblivion. Neither of them noticed _Drogon_ touch down softly. He opened his paw, laying Jorah on the oily stone.

*~*~*

Jorah woke on his back to a bed of stars. Foolishly, he smiled at them, forgetting where he was. _The scratch of claws on stone. A faint trail of smoke wafting by._ _Drogon._ Daenerys.

He rolled over onto his knees, _Snowflake_ scratching against the ground. Starlight did its best to light the black fort but it was more or less a construct of shadow with faint impressions of walls surrounding him on all sides. Beyond that, nothing at all. He found a sleeping dragon opposite, breathing steadily accompanied by a silver mist of smoke. They were so high that the cold air kept the smoke at their feet, pushing it down against the stone.

“Daenerys?” Jorah hissed. He stood, approaching the dragon carefully so as not to startle it. The queen was no longer on its back.

Her voice came from one of the walls. Daenerys lingered, looking down upon the valley as though it were part of her dominion. “Over here. Who do you think they are?” she asked, when he came to stand beside her.

Far below, where the sands of _Yi Ti_ met the fortress walls, several hundred _thousand_ people had gathered in a sea. They stopped at the invisible boundary between the fortresses but spread far back into the rise of the dunes. Their numerous, tiny camp fires lit up the ground as a second expanse of stars. Jorah had never seen so many gathered in one place outside of a city. It was a city in itself – one without walls.

“Horselords of the _Jogos Nai_ perhaps – similar to the _Dothraki_ ,” he explained. “Only short, thick and fierce with striped horses. Their temper is rumoured to be as ill as their masteres. They fight with the civilised cultures of the East. Best avoided. We should stay quiet – sleep and leave before they notice _Drogon_.”

“You think these _Jogos Nai_ would hunt a dragon?”

“They might.”

_Drogon_ was enormous, well on his way to becoming one of the largest dragons known but he appeared as a cat curled up in the corner, such was the colossal scale of the fort.

“What are they doing here? There is nothing but sand and murderers, you said so.”

“I could not guess. Maybe they were chased here by something.”

“Or they're waiting for it to come out of the mountains.”

“Either way, your Grace, we are sitting above the unknown.” The queen looked again. The crowd was split – distinct lines running between the camps. “No.” Jorah murmured.

“I did not say anything,” Daenerys defended.

“You were thinking it very loudly.”

“An army of that size-”

“-would have us tied to a spit before the sun. This far out, titles and great names mean nothing. Drogon might be formidable but not even he could save you from that many hungry mouths.”

“I survived the _Dothraki_.”

“You married a _khal_ and spoke their language.”

“I survived the _Slavers._ ”

“You conquered them _briefly_.”

“They will have food and water – both of which we need if we want to survive. There is nothing up here to live on. Would you have us die here instead?”

Jorah sighed. When the queen had a mind about something there was nothing to be done about changing it. “For the sake or argument, let's imagine that we can wander over to this lawless hoard in the desert for a chat – how are we to get down there? We have no torches to risk the descent inside the fort. The dragon is asleep. Why are you smiling?”

“Ever you look, Ser yet do not see.”

When he did, his answer was the same as before. A very firm, _'No...'_

###  **NIGHTFORT – THE NORTH**

“Fuck the gods...” Edd, knee deep in soft snow, stopped at the ugly construct of stone grown out of the ice. The _Nightfort_ was a creation – like a ghoul, vast and in a permanent state of collapse. Outbursts of white tree roots surged from the oldest stone and gripped at the blue ice. Perhaps it grew _through_ the Wall, as Sam had read in those useless scraps of parchment.

“Castle Black could fit in there a dozen bloody times an' still 'ave room for a castle,” one of the men added.

“Going to need a thousand men just ter-get it lit up,” Cub stopped beside Edd. “Thousand more to man the top. Thirty-thousand more to patrol tha' Wall.”

“Let's hope half the realm is commin' then,” Edd replied.

Edd strode out in front, ploughing his way toward the castle. He could hear wind howl through the open windows, playing a mournful tune as though it were an instrument. A moment later, he realised no one had followed. The sorry group of men, half sunk in snow, refused to approach the old ruin.

“You ladies waiting for an invitation then, or what? Don' look at the castle, look at me. You think them old black walls are haunted? That spirits lurk in the vaults beneath the keep? The Night's King and his demon bride sit on thrones in the keep? That what you heard? I heard it too. I know what I seen though. Believe me, hatchlings – the dead are coming. The king and all his army. His bitch-queen. They are on the other side of that fucking wall. Now get into that bleedin' wreck of a castle before I paint the walls red. That's better.”

A crow watched, perched on one of the desolate walls. It titled its head as the men pushed through a broken fence, squeezing between the bars. Beside the _Nightfort_ there was a zigzagging staircase cut directly into the _Wall_. The three-eyed crow kept to its morbid perch until the men of the Night's Watch vanished into the fort.

The crow climbed steeply, clearing the pines then the _Wall_. On the other side the _Haunted Forest_ was set back from the _Wall_ , held at bay by the shadow it cast. The forest needed light to grow. In the void, figures had assembled. There were only a few, scattered at random – some at the forest edge, others pressed against the ice. They swayed with the wind – dead as the night, bones white as snow, eyes blue like the roses. Waiting.

*~*~*

There were no doors, Edd noticed, the wood had either burned into a smear of ash or fallen flat against the Winter winds. Snow filled the void, clawing into the _Nightfort_ until it became a dangerous veneer of ice which his boots fought against.

“Think we ought get some wood – light them fires,” Edd ordered, as they picked one of the outer buildings to make their camp in. A few hours work with the shovels had the snow banished. The fire melted the ice from the walls. A bit of attention and the small room was almost homely.

“Meat's still good, I'd say,” Cub wandered beside a line of rabbits, skinned, gutted and hung on hooks. They were frozen solid and left when the castle was abandoned. The place gave him the creeps. It was full of relics, as if the last men to occupy it had simply vanished with the night.

“Maybe,” Edd agreed. “Get that bastard Geriim to check. “Cunt thinks himself a chef.”

“Yes, boss.”

“An' I want the others makin' torches, you here? Few hours rest, then we head into the main castle.” Another flurry of snow spiralled in, hitting Edd in the face. “Find a door while you're at it. Any ol' thing'll do.”

###  **FIVE FORTS – YI TI**

Daenerys could feel her knight's disapproval. Spiralling around the outside wall of the fort was a perilous staircase wide enough for one soldier to climb. There were holes in the steps and wall which Daenerys clung at. Thousands of years ago they were the foundations for a wooden frame that protected climbers from both attack and the fall. That was gone, rotted away like the ice.

Neither of them spoke. It was too dangerous to break their concentration for even a moment. With a strong wind and the ever-present pull of the abyss below, they faced the wall and held onto any nook they could find with both hands. As they descended, the noise of the camp reached them.

Exhausted, Daenerys lowered her body, sitting on the endless steps with a view of the valley hoard. She rubbed her paining arms as Jorah sat beside her.

“Are you having seconds thoughts?” he asked. “We could always go back. It is not too late.”

She shook her head. “It is not that. You see there,” she pointed to the distinct lines between the camps. “This isn't one group of people.”

“Forgive me but that seems unlikely. Everyone one is at war with everybody else in these parts. The empire has been fractured for many hundreds of years. They'd sooner kill each other than clog together in one camp.”

“That may be so but I know camps. It was the same with the _Dothraki_ when you and Daario came for me. See over there – the larger fire.” The flame from it bit at the base of their tower, near where the stairs ended. “Whoever they are, their leaders are assembled at our feet.”

“Have you thought of what you will say to them – if we can say anything at all?”

“I know what I will say,” Daenerys replied.

There was no fear in her tone, as though she knew something that Jorah did not. It made him suspicious but he did not question her. She was his queen. “As you like.” Then she was up again, descending toward the camp.

*~*~*

Eventually they were spotted. Jorah glanced over his shoulder to see a group assembling at the foot of the fort. Their number grew. They threw wood on the fire, building it up into a roaring sun. The warmth against their back was almost worth the death that surely awaited.

Daenerys paused a few steps from the base. She let go of the wall and turned to face the camp fire.

The hoard was organised. Their tents were substantial and their form structured, almost like streets. The fires were carefully placed to keep the entire camp lit. Jorah was correct, there were strange, brutish dwarfs with striped mules lingering nearby but they were not the only men in the camp. Others were tall, pale and willowy with black hair to their knees and almond shaped eyes. The man Daenerys assumed to be their leader was different again. He was average in height but lean, with olive skin and green eyes. There were gold braces strapped to his arms and ornately patterned silk around his waist.

Daenerys stepped onto the sand.

Jorah was a few feet behind. He was scanning the men around the fire – sizing each one up. They were laden with weapons, fit and naturally aggressive. Six he could take, eight maybe. There were more than fifty within easy reach. He kept his hands clearly at his side so that they could see he harboured no ill will.

The man with the golden jewellery led the approach. Barefoot, he wandered across the warm sand around the fire and stopped in front of the two figures that had climbed down from the forts. He started to speak, pointing between the figures and the fort.

“Jorah?” Daenerys whispered.

“Sounds like _Yitish_ ,” he replied, standing beside her now – hands still raised. “I heard it sometimes on the docks. Traders speak it.”

“Can you?”

“Barely...” Jorah cleared his throat then tried, _“Morning!”_ No doubt it was the wrong greeting but it was one of the few words shouted across ship decks. The man stopped speaking for a moment. This time when he spoke, his tone was calmer. It was clearly a question even though Jorah could not understand it. Instead he asked the same thing in both _Common Tongue_ and _Valyrian_.

“ _Valyrian will do,”_ the man replied. _“Did you come from beyond those mountains? These men around me are simple peoples, they think you are sorcerers. They say I should throw your pieces on the fire before you curse us.”_

“ _There is no need. We have travelled from the Shadow but we are not from there,”_ Jorah assured him, lightening his tone. _“I am a knight from Westeros.”_

“ _What part?”_

“ _North. Tiny speck of a place called Bear Island.”_ Surprisingly, there was recognition in the man's face. Common desert dwellers were not familiar with Westeros.

“ _Then you, ser, are a long way from home. Westerosi come to the East to die. The woman, there – wife or slave?”_

Jorah was too stunned to reply. Daenerys was not. She lowered the vile hood from her robes, letting her silver hair spill free. Her unusual eyes caught the firelight as she stepped uncomfortably close to its heat. The men watched, unsure of what to make of her.

“ _He is my knight,”_ she replied.

“ _And what are you?”_ The man tilted his head, looking around the fire at her. The flames seemed to dance in her eyes. _“A lady of this Bear Island?”_

Daenerys allowed a smile to curl her pink lips. _“I am no lady,”_ she assured the man.

Jorah knelt in the sand beside Daenerys. _“You address the Queen.”_

  


 


	40. She-Bear

 

 

###  **FIVE FORTS – YI TI**

The blood ran hot, trailing down exposed flesh on his inner thigh – dripping into the foul sand as he staggered along a narrow track of dirt.

It went on forever, diverging a thousand times before meandering toward the infinite where the ground lifted subtly into the dunes. Tents lined it, wall to wall. Some were large, reinforced with bamboo poles from the jungles of _Yi Ti._ Strings of oil lamps were strung between them, knocking together in a haze of scented smoke. The tents were marked with crude writing painted with animal blood directly onto the fabric panels, identifying the families within. Every now and then their morbid gallery gave way to primitive yards holding starved exotic beasts, shuffling together, mewing at the night. It was a camp of suffering but also of hope. Old enemies gathered together, living in truce. The fear of the unknown was stronger than their centuries of bitter feuding.

A stout, heavily tattooed man stumbled. His skin was made blacker by brutal charcoal patterns pushed under the surface with a scorched blade. Their images of warring gods were old, wrinkled with age and faded in the desert sun. He collapsed against a tent. Knotted hair caught in his cracked lips. He groaned, rolling onto his stomach while the material slid beneath his fingers – _so soft_ , he thought, as it escaped his hold.

A child watched from the shelter of an adjoining tent as the _Jogos Nhai_ warrior died. He left a thick stream of blood soaking through the cloth. As the child drew near she saw the ornate hilt of a knife sticking from the man's naked back, caught in the ribs with the tip pressed to his heart. He died as he killed. The girl spat on him then she retraced his steps, creeping up to the fire where the god-men gathered. Bowls of meat had been abandoned on the outskirts, unguarded as the leaders inched closer to the flames where a silver woman and her oddly dressed man servant drew patterns in the sand. The child slithered along, unseen through the shadows until she reached one of the bowls.

It was stolen within the shudder of a flame.

*~*~*

“Are you certain, Ser?” Daenerys asked her knight, as Jorah pulled back from the crude map drawn in the sand beside the bonfire.

The warrior emperor Pol Qo returned to his place – sheath empty of its jewelled dagger. Two foot shorter than the others with an egg-shaped head, he had a form of sharpness usually seen in the likes of Lannisters. It was his eyes. Almost too large for his face, one had been damaged in battle. Its pupil remained a black marble while the other shrank to a pin in the bright roar of the fire. He knelt, muttering at the picture in the sand then stabbed his finger into _Yi Ti's_ dirt and began adding features onto the Northern lands where his people roamed.

Satisfied, he turned to his rival and whispered something neither Daenerys nor Jorah could understand. So far, the rulers had found a form of peace between them but it is was shaky, like a finger of ice suspended on the lip of a cave, warming in the sun.

“ _You are from here-”_ Bu Gai, _Yin's_ fine-boned ruler, dipped a burned twig into the sand representing the _Bay of Ice._ _“The dragon queen, here...”_ This time he pointed to the shattered realm of _Valyria_. Then he dragged the stick through it, ruining the land to show it annihilated by the water. _“The dragons are all dead. You are queen of nothing. We, princes of nothing. Gods laugh.”_

Jorah sighed in frustration. Progress was slow and the language difficult. At least they were not dead. The rulers of the hoard were curious and for the moment, that was enough. _“Yin, oldest trade city in the world, you have ships.”_ He moved their attention back to the coast. _“All we need is one and a small crew to-”_

“ _No Yin.”_ Bu Gai interrupted, brushing his hand over the sand, erasing the great city from the map as he had _Valyria._ _“Gone.”_

“ _Gone?”_ Jorah asked. Bu Gai nodded. He watched the man carefully. His soft flesh was littered with wounds, most healed months ago but whatever he had escaped, it must have been carnage for an emperor to feel its touch.

Bu Gai was still sweeping his fingertips softly through the sand where his city once stood, eyes glossed by un-shed tears.  _Gone._ Nine thousand years became nothing in one setting of the sun.

Jorah touched Daenerys' arm gently and they turned away from the others. Jorah whispered, “These men are both god emperors of Yi Ti. I have heard the stories of Bu Gai and the usurper from the Jogos Nhai, the warlord Pol Qo. He is a fierce conqueror with a powerful sorcerer in his company. Very dangerous men, your Grace. Bu Gai holds the capital, Yin and controls the nation's trade. Pol Qo has the vast majority of land and ransoms the capital with food shortages and a constant threat of war.”

“What are they doing together in the desert?”

“They and a dozen other tribes have been chased here by calamity. Bu Gai says that the glorious city of Yin has been overrun by cannibals, pirates and hoards of monsters. Pol Qo has fled an influx of 'unclean' from the Far East. I believe he means the same displaced peoples as Bu Gai though the two will not agree. Both argue that their terror is worse than the other. Either way – their lands have been invaded by murderous groups escaping some kind of devastation in the cold lands beyond the edges of their nation. They are hiding here, under the protection of 'old magic'. Pol Qo wants to burn our heads in the fire as an offering. They did not kill us because Bu Gai thought we were messengers of the gods descending the sacred tower.”

“They must be disappointed.”

“Aye,” Jorah agreed.

“Show them the rest of the map you saw in Asshai. Knowledge is all we have to trade with.”

“As your Grace wishes, though we'd be safer to climb that tower and try our luck with the dragon.”

“And starve? Only those that dare to reach possess Fortune's fruit.”

“Those that build their fire on the cabin wall, burn.” He countered, wishing that he'd been more measured in his teachings. The queen was a quick though _selective_ study. He had tried to temper her will with philosophy but their discussions reached the same end. Jorah could already guess the words forming on her lips, words he had heard her utter from the _Red Waste_ to the pyramid at _Meereen._ He dropped his head before she could finish, knowing he had lost.

“Fire does not burn a dragon.”

“I cannot fault you there.” Jorah returned to face the fire and the restless pack of men basking in its light. They assembled like a lord's dogs gone wild with only the faint memory of obedience keeping them from tearing each other apart. Each set of eyes held close watch and Jorah wasn't convinced that they were entirely naive to the Common Tongue.

Jorah picked up the long stick and started to extend the boundaries of the Eastern world, looping the shores of  _Asshai_ down into  _Ulthos_ before finishing the enormous stretch of land beyond the  _Mountains of the Morn_ . The men whispered amongst themselves as he drew, shuffling toward it in astonishment. Three thousand years of exploration and they had barely made a dent in the continent. Jorah stopped at the Northern edge and held out his hand, silently asking for the food and water that was promised. It was given and finally they ate.

*~*~*

Jorah continued to trade for each part of the map. Soon they had the promise of safety, provisions for their travel and the extremely unusual request of a saddle-craftsman's services. When the map of Essos was complete, Daenerys asked her knight to leave.

“No,” was Jorah's initial response. “These men are dangerous, Daenerys. Pol Qo still believes you are a white-haired witch. He'd cut your throat in a moment. I will not-”

“You will do exactly as your queen commands,” she insisted firmly. “Go. I will be safe enough. Ser, I'll not have that look from you. If these men wished to turn on us, your disapproving glares do little but stall our end. There can be no doubt that you are a skilled warrior but four-hundred thousand starving mouths will make short work of you and your pretty sword.”

“That many?”

“More... I need you to trust me.”

He was not happy but Jorah retreated to the safety of the Fort's steps. Although the tribes had converged on the buildings for their magical protection they refused to come near the walls. Jorah noticed the two princes send away their guard. Three royals were left, sat at the fire. Daenerys looked wild, caught by the tips of clawing flames. They reached for her, twisting against the gentle wind in want of her flesh. She may have sat on a cold stone throne at the heart of _Meereen_ but she was meant for the desert. The wilderness of men's hearts did not frighten her.

A skinny child picked through the abandoned food, hidden by a line of shadow. Jorah watched. The child wore the vibrant green sash of the mountain clans. Those were a proud people, strong and unnaturally tall according to the stories his father used to tell. Jeor had been jealous of the jungle nations. _All that wood_ , he used to say. Bears valued the commodity. There was so little of it, rising out of the bare rock of _Bear Island_. His home was beautiful but it was harsh. The mainlanders called them 'proud'. Pride was the only honourable choice of those that had so little. He wondered if these men were proud of their desert hovel – if they valued the sand slum or if it was vengeance that held their peace.

###  **BEAR ISLAND**

###  **271 AC**

At seventeen, Jorah Mormont was too slender for his father's liking. Tired of the monotony he'd escaped into the woods and now perched at the cusp of an unnamed waterfall. There were hundreds of them, scattered over the vicious rocks that built the island. The roar of water mingled with the sway of _Bear Island's_ pines.

The stream beside had almost frozen, a process that began at the edge where the slower currents formed impossible, white sculptures. Brute force from the churning water snapped them free, setting them to sail like tiny ice ships. Jorah threw pebbles at one icy raft as it made its way toward the drop. Inevitably it vanished, smashed to pieces far below.

_Crack._

In the depths of the forest, a pine broke apart. It cried like a fox, bleeding out into the snow. A few minutes later the old giant fell through the other trees and crashed across the ground. Axes attacked, cutting it into finely crafted beams to repair the village hall after the last storm. His father was there, leading the loggers.

“What are you doing out here?”

Dacey Mormont, a few years older but twice as fierce, scrambled over the rocks. She found Jorah perilously close to the drop, sitting on the last rise of ice before the fall.

“Prince...” she teased, in her usual greeting. It was a great joke between them since they were small. Dacey had always protected the young Mormont heir, as if she were his king's guard. “Mother says I should let the wolves have you but I told her that your meat was too tough for wolves.”

She hopped across the ice-locked stones in the river, scaling them with the grace of a Southern lady. It was an ironic charade. Dacey Mormont would sooner carve a man than wed him. Jorah had seen her collection of swords once and she could wield each one. Those slither of steel were her children.

“If you'll not do as your father bids then you shall do as I command.” Dacey nudged the back of his shoulder with a stick.

Jorah brushed her off. “Leave me. You have disturbed the peace. A habit of yours.”

“You and your peace,” she prodded him again, sharper this time. “Peace is the town bell, marking the hour. You have to be prepared for the rest.”

“And what is the rest?”

“The rest is chaos, little king.” This time she hit him across the back of the head with her stick.

“Leave off, Dacey!” Jorah grumbled.

The she-bear considered her cousin. He had not been the same since returning from the frozen lands. She'd stayed on the cliffs, camped for days under the bleeding tree, awaiting his boat. When it arrived, she was the first to pull Jorah ashore. His face had been paler than the snow as resisted her hold, scaled the beach and headed directly to Mormont Keep where he sat in silence for hours in the place his mother died.

“You look like a proper Wildling, you do – sulking in the snow. Are you a Wildling, cousin?”

Anger flared across his steel eyes. He turned, standing on the rock. “Do not call me Wilding!”

Dacey backed toward the safety of the pines. He followed, drawn away from the stream's edge. “Wildings sit in the snow with naught to do,” she continued, twirling the stick playfully from hand to hand as though it were a sword. “So I thought you might be one.”

Jorah scavenged a pine branch from the snow and brandished it. His hand was steady, the stick poised. He parried her first playful lunges then tried a few of his own. Their sticks met, slapping together.

“Very nice,” she praised, letting him meet her several times. “You are improving.”

“You are not trying,” he replied, noting the hand pinned behind her back.

She answered by whacking him across the knees. When he fell to the snow she levelled the stick at his neck, winning. “Again.”

He swiped her stick away with his glove. “I know what you are trying to do. You need not bother.”

“Oh believe me, I do this for myself, not you.” They began to fight. “It would be embarrassing to watch the Lord of Bear Island fall by a squire's sword.”

“I am not _that_ bad. You are uncommonly good That is your problem. No perspective.” Then he realised why she had climbed all the way up here. It wasn't to spar. “No – _no..._ You cannot use me as an excuse!”

Momentarily distracted, Jorah managed to knock her stick away. Dacey collected it from the snow. “I'm not going to meet some snivelling mainlander lord!” she hissed, attacking with a fresh wave of violence.

“Like it or not, you are a lady.” He had to pause to fend her off. “Ladies marry lords. That is how it works.”

“I'll show you how it works,” Dacey easily knocked Jorah onto his back with her stick. “Is that what you're going to do? Steal a noble lady and marry her? I saw you with that one last Spring.” She allowed Jorah a moment to collect himself from the ground. “Quiet little thing – strange hair.”

“Mayrel Glover,” Jorah met her new flurry of attacks. “Dacey, you cannot leave the lord waiting in the long house. It is rude. Your mother and my father would not approve.”

“Will you accompany me back?”

Jorah's stick snapped in half under a well placed strike from her. “Fine.”

“I'd rather range beyond the Wall than go through any more of these tiresome courtships,” Dacey admitted, as they scaled the narrow path cut into the rock. They used the girths of pine trees for holds, clinging to the bubbled bark, lowering themselves as they had done a thousand times throughout childhood. The children of _Bear Island_ scampered over the treacherous interior for as long as the light would allow.

“You cannot join the Night's Watch either.”

“I don't see why not.”

“Aside from the immutable fact that you are a lady – it would never be permitted by your mother. You are to command the armies when Garrow has that heart attack he keeps threatening us with.”

She nearly fell from the cliff in surprise. “Are you certain? Do  _not_ tease me, cousin or I'll leave your body in the woods. If the wolves won't have you the crows will.”

“I swear. Father was discussing Garrow's succession. So you see, you can't go off hunting Wildlings.”

Jorah was an oddity. Most children had several siblings, particularly in the North. So many children died of the fierce cold that noble couples had as many as they were able to protect their reign. They roved in packs while Jorah was left alone – the prized son.

“What's that?”

“What is _what_? Oh. Rock fall by the looks. Half the cliff has come down.” Jorah replied, as Dacey darted from the track and disappeared into a patch of saplings. “Come back!”

He had no choice but to follow, pushing aside the soft brush. Jorah found her at the yawning mouth of a brand new cave. Ice and dirt fell around its edges like a filthy veil. A freezing shower of water brought out the thin veins of gold in the black rock. Pieces of it shed onto the ground where they stood.

“Now you have seen it – can we go?”

Dacey was intrigued, edging toward the ominous creation. The quakes were always building things. The fisher-woman told stories about the night of violent shaking a hundred years ago that dragged  _Seal Rock_ out from the waves. “Come on, prince, or are you afraid of the dark as well as the snow?”

“The only thing I fear is your sense of adventure. Dacey! Dacey...” Jorah stepped out of the pale light and into the shadow of the cave. It smelled strange – stale. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Macey was further in, kicking at another pile of rubble. There was nothing in the cave except for a stream of water, gushing violently in the unseen heart. “Satisfied? Who is this patient lord awaiting your return? I bet it's a Stark...”

“Not a Stark. A Tarly.”

“I am immune to your lies.”

“Blackwood,” she admitted.

Jorah broke into warm laughter. It echoed around the cave, stealing away into its depths. “You have no need to fear. If a Blackwood awaits you, your mother has no intention of marriage. He is here to discuss a military campaign.”

She reeled around, nearly running him down. “Then I am late!”

“Obviously. That was your intention.” Dacey ended up in his arms. “Careful, damn near ran me over with your haste.”

_Crack._

“Did you hear something?” Jorah eyed the cave. Nothing.

“No. Come on,” she grabbed his arm, dragging Jorah back to the forest.

###  **FIVE FORTS – YI TI**

“Where are those bastards off to?” Jorah asked, as the squat horsemen of the _Jogos Nhai_ abandoned the fire to roll up their thatched rugs. Sharp whistling bounced between them while the odd striped horses began to rear up, kicking against their pens in expectation.

Daenerys roamed toward him wearing a new shawl gifted by the men. She had been alone with them for many hours. She offered nothing in reply, stopping short of his chosen place on the stone steps. Daenerys held out her hand. “I need the horn.”

“You didn't...”

“I did. Ser, the horn.”

“Khaleesi...” he protested but handed over the dragon horn as commanded. “Drogon is just as like to burn all your new friends as they are to slay him.”

The men moved their camp back, clearing a space for the dragon to land. Most had to be hustled by the prince of _Yin_ , unconvinced of the mythical creature's existence. Daenerys turned the horn over in her hands. It was an unassuming thing, broken and worn. The _High Valyrian_ inscriptions were inlaid with the tiniest fragments of dragonglass.

“What do you hope to achieve by bringing Drogon down from his perch?” Jorah continued, shaking his head in that frustrated manner of his. “These men, their ancestors did not bend to the Valyrians when they had a dozen dragons. It is not like Slaver's Bay, your Grace – or Westeros. These are old people with thick superstitions and an unsurpassed history of violence. Dragons are unlikely to enamour them to your cause.”

“I realise that,” she replied patiently. “Many of the Jogos Nhai riders have seen wild dragons near the mountains.”

“Then why?”

“They have offered to build us a saddle, so that we may ride our 'fire-demon' to the West.”

Jorah was perplexed – an expression the queen found distinctly amusing on her knight.

*~*~*

_Drogon_ landed gracefully in the cleared area by the fire. His wings blew it to ashes while his clawed feet trampled straight through the hot coals, spraying soot into the air. The creature was wary of the men, keeping the elongated talons on his feet lifted slightly while his tail flicked from side to side, grazing against the black stone walls of the fort.

“Sh... Sh...” Jorah calmed the dragon, reaching up to pet its nose like he did the horses. _Drogon_ chirped, blinking curiously.

A dozen leather workers from the horse tribe arrived laden with goods to construct the saddle. They shied away from the creature while Jorah settled him down, belly to the sand. When the dragon was breathing slowly, edging toward sleep, Jorah nodded at the queen.

“ _They may approach,”_ Daenerys said. _“Ser Jorah – stay with them.”_

Jorah nodded. His new friends spoke no  _Valyrian_ at all. They chewed some kind of horrid root, spitting all over the sand every few minutes. “Don't mind them,” he whispered to the dragon.  _Drogon_ opened one eye in response. “If they become too annoying, I shall let you eat at least two of them.”

Meanwhile Bu Gai led the queen towards his royal tent. A harem of young girls rustled around the edges, cross-legged on colourful mats. This tent had its own fire with a sickly sweet liquid boiling furiously at the centre.

“ _Daughters of the Jinqi, rescued from Pol Qo. He calls them 'gift'. Sit, dragon queen.”_

Daenerys avoided the stark blue eyes of the women.  _“I said I would try. This may not work.”_

“ _Understand,”_ the prince replied. He sat on a small stool opposite her while one of the women spooned the liquid from the fire into a cup. Fire was nothing to the dragon queen, who held the cup without any cloth to protect her skin from the heat. There was magic in her, of that Bu Gai was certain. Pol Qo had his sorcerer, why not him? _“Valyrians, they imported this for their dreamers. Many years ago. The Asshai'i try to trade for it but we will not.”_

“ _You do not approve of magic?”_ Daenerys lifted the cup to her nose, immersing herself in the scent of lotus and barley.

“ _Magic did this,”_ he gestured to the tent. _“It tears apart the world. Over and over like the rising of the sun. We are at dusk. The night awaits. I want to know what it holds.”_

Daenerys was not sure she wished to know what the night held. What if she lacked the courage to face it?  _“To the dawn...”_ She lifted the cup to her lips.

“ _Drink all.”_

###  **CITADEL – OLD TOWN**

“What are you going on about?” Sam held up his hands, trying to slow Gilly down. Her lips were moving so fast in bizarre whispers that he was certain she'd learned a foreign tongue off those merchants in the market. He took the coin from her fingers, if only to stop her waving it in front of his face. “I can't understand a word. Why the coin?”

Gilly rubbed the middle of her head and started strutting back and forth in front of the fire. Little Sam fussed nearby, sensing his mother's unrest. “Your maester,” she repeated, trying to calm her breathing, “is trying to kill you.”

“Rubbish...” Sam insisted. “I mean sure, he's a dangerous sort – liar for sure, definitely a thief. How could he kill me with a coin? I'm not a great fighter but I like my chances against a bit of silver.”

Gilly shared the stories of Old Man Hightower and by the time she'd finished, they were sitting together on the bed, holding hands, facing the flames. Another shower of rain crept in through the window. It trapped the candle smoke in the tiny stone room which felt more like a cell every day.

“We can't leave,” Sam shook his head. “There is too much left to learn and no other maester will have me. I have to have apprenticeship to a maester for access into the vaults.”

“He _will_ kill you,” Gilly squeezed Sam's hand. “All he wants you for are stories from beyond the Wall. Those you already shared. There's nothing else he needs.”

“I could lie,” he shrugged. “Make him think I know something more. String him along. Worked on my father for years. It'll be fine.”

“Sam – you're an honest person.”

“That's why it'll work. We can't hide from what's coming. Marwyn's all the hope we've got.”

“He is a murderer...”

“That is true for most of the realm.” The heavy purse from Hightower rested on the bed with them. Sam looked at it. “There's money for a ship, horses, bribes – enough to last us quite some time.”

“The Old Man had his own stories of the North. Perhaps one of those might tempt the maester long enough. There's more. He had a dragon egg.”

“What?!” Sam regressed to childhood awe. “Those are very _very_ rare! Forget a ship. You could buy a fleet.”

“He found it in the Hightower. When I showed him the coin, he thought I'd come to kill him for it. There was more in the labyrinth, relics of the last war.”

“Gilly – you should not go back there. He may not be so generous the next time.”

“He won't even know I'm there. I'll be a shadow – you be a raven.”

###  **BEAR ISLAND**

###  **271 AC**

_Crack._

Jorah stopped. He was in a narrow track of ice, powder snow in four foot walls either side and a sharp valley drop to his left where the same deceptive layer of snow came fifteen feet up the pine trunks. A slip was death. Anything that fell in there would not be found until the next summer.

“Keep up!” Dacey called from in front.

“Did you hear something?” Jorah asked, eyeing the forest behind. He was sure something was following them. “A wolf, perhaps.”

“The wolves won't be out in this,” Dacey replied. “You are going to make me later than I already am.”

A few minutes passed until Jorah heard it again. It was the sound of pine branches snapping. “I think it's a bear.”

Dacey stormed back toward her cousin. “You worry more than that nursemaid of ours. Bears don't come this way. Not with snow like this. It's probably ice in the trees. There's a bit of wind. Now can we hurry please?”

 


	41. The Bastards Dance

 

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

Sansa Stark rode at the _Wildling_ army as though it were _hers_. Her soul died at Ramsay's hand but rose from the ashes of _Winterfell_. Blackened, torn and hard as dragonglass. Fear was the snow on her face – immaterial. It melted off her flesh. Discarded without a trace. She was the wolf _Lady_ never lived to be. _What was her brother?_ She wondered. Had death made him strong or had it stolen his rage...

A white mare pulled to a stop, fighting against its reins. The creature on its back shared her brother's dark eyes. He had the same hair, sturdy form and pale countenance made worse by his brush with death. Jon was off his horse, knee deep in snow as Sansa brought her beast beside him.

“Brother...” she greeted, reservedly from her perch.

“Lady Stark...” he replied, as was their way from childhood days. Jon offered both hands which she accepted, slipping off the horse and directly into his waiting arms. They wrapped around her, all leather and smoke.

_He is still warm_ , Sansa realised in relief. Death had not taken that from him. Her hold tightened, nearly against her will as she gripped his shoulders and burrowed into the furs. In his arms she found the ghosts of her family. For a moment she was _Sansa_. A breath of wind passed and she was _Stark_ again.

“I doubted the ravens,” said Jon, as Sansa pulled back. He was gazing at the blackened pile of rock in the ice. _Winterfell's_ innards were laid bare in an abstract vision of death. “Who'd have thought that our stubborn castle could fall? Old Nan said it was made by giants.”

“A dragon ended it,” Sansa replied. “I watched it birth from under the rock. I think Old Nan's stories had more truth than father let on. The woods are cold without the creature sleeping below. Even the Godwood is dying. We won't survive a winter a here. We'll rebuild.” She promised him, lifting her gloved hand to her face. She cupped it gently, directing him away from the sight. “There are Starks in Winterfell again.”

*~*~*

Littlefinger spent the afternoon on the far side of the royal tent. Tucked into a corner with a glass of warm ale, he kept watch as the hours passed and night set upon them. Jon Snow, or 'Stark' as he styled himself these days, was a stranger. The world paid little attention to bastards, a mistake, he reasoned. Danger always stemmed from the unknown. Perhaps if Roose had taken the time to unravel his son's malevolence he'd have seen the blade before it entered his chest. Petyr harboured regret far deeper than the late Bolton. It stabbed at his stomach whenever he looked upon the Lady Stark. He'd not be making that mistake again.

His careful study was interrupted by a crash of armour falling uncouthly into the seat beside him. Petyr's ale sloshed over the lip of the goblet as the knight discarded her heavy sword onto the table. It was a beautiful thing, earning a curious tilt of his head.

“An abundance of gold. Gaudy lion head mid-roar. I'd guess that handsome sword belongs to a Lannister.” Petyr wiped his hands on the tablecloth. “Whose head divorced their corpse for that fine thing to end up here?”

Brienne had not realised the table was occupied by Sansa's pet dog. That's how she saw him – a little lord that Sansa barked commands at and he followed. What debt he owed her, Brienne did not know. She understood enough of men to guess his generosity had more strings than a spider's web.

“The sword was a gift,” Brienne replied. Her eyes locked on Jon Stark – self proclaimed, 'King in the North'. She didn't trust anyone dragged back to life by the gods. What was dead should stay dead in case the gods made playthings of them all. It was never to their benefit. “It was a promise.”

“A promise,” Littlefinger was momentarily engaged. He knew a little of Tarth and the lord that ruled there and he'd heard fabulous tales of the daughter, more man than half the fighters in the realm. _A great beauty_ they joked, now the gods laughed at them and the pieces she'd left scattered on the ground. “That is noble. Almost knightly.”

“I _am_ a knight.”

“Of course. I remember.” His voice turned to silk, sensing weakness. “Our queen did the honours herself, so I am told. May I?” He gestured to the sword.

Brienne was too busy watching Sansa and Jon drink wine at the far end of the long table to care for Littlefinger's curiosity. A gruff nod was enough.

Petyr lifted the sword, drawing it into his lap. It was lighter than one would expect of such a weapon. Most of the weight came from the jewelled handle. In truth it was unbalanced. Lannisters were like that, favouring appearance over substance. Northerners, they knew how to make swords. Simple – clean – dangerous. He tugged it a short way out of the sheath and found an unusual blade inside. Instead of a smooth, even surface this metal had innumerable imperfections caused by folding the alloy over onto itself again and again, a thousand times, maybe more.

“Valyrian steel,” he stated. “Such things are quite unique. Rare as dragon eggs these days. Is this one half of the great Stark long sword, butchered in King's Landing?”

“I do not know,” Brienne replied.

He tilted it to the flame. The surface came alive with fire. Tywin gave this sword to Jamie Lannister – Brienne had too much honour to steal it – so there existed a promise between them. Petyr searched his mind but he could not envisage a more unlikely thing.

“The original sword belonged to Sansa's father. Honourable then that it now protects her. A shame its sibling gathers dust in King's Landing. It would suit her brother. Half brother. Eddard's son all the same.”

_There is no Catelyn in him,_ Petyr thought. Snow lacked the Riverland ferocity. It was bred from a stubbornness against the rising tide. He could see those flood waters in Sansa's eyes – the depths to which she'd sink to keep what was hers. Snow had only Stark bravery with a heart too soft for war. A smart man would be wary of Sansa, a half-sibling with his birthright and an army. Snow broke bread with her instead, telling her stories to earn a smile. How foolish. _Foolish like his father_. The older Snow grew, the more evident the truth became. There was some fire in his blood and it wasn't Ned's.

“Why are you here?” Brienne asked bluntly.

Petyr was taken aback. In the civilised days, knights would not address a lord thus let alone a lady. He returned the sword. “I serve the queen,” he replied, “same as you.”

“Indeed. What I asked was _why_?”

“That is no secret. Those whispers have been from Bear Island to Old Town. I served her mother. I... loved her mother. She loved me, in her way but I was no Stark. For Cat's sake, I'll not leave until she is safe.”

This time Brienne regarded Littlefinger. He was a slight man, fine of feature but fragile, like the mocking bird on his tunic. Podrick warned that he was the most dangerous man in _Westeros._ Brienne knew why. There was nothing more malignant than a man without a heart. She recognised his anguish in herself. To love fruitlessly with no hope... “Then we want the same thing.”

Petyr nodded. He had the measure of Brienne. “I hope the Lannisters serve your heart better than the Baratheons, Ser – neither are worthy of such devotion.” The aversion of her eyes answered his suspicion. “Why does the lion send you to guard the wolf? He is duty bound to have her head.”

“A promise to her mother.”

“Odd, isn't it? Here we are, held aloft by the promise of a ghost.”

Littlefinger abandoned the table with his ale, slipping through the crowded tent leaving Brienne unsettled. All her secrets – spilled in an instant. A few whispered words had from her what torture could not bring. Podrick was correct.

As Littlefinger drew near the pair of siblings, they finished their drink and snuck out of the tent. He lingered by the edge but chose not to follow. Not tonight. He picked a different target, offering a full goblet to the Wildling king.

“You're the smallest fucker I seen,” Tormund introduced himself, accepting the wine. “This stuff is better than the sour rot made in the Wildling camps. Mostly piss, that was. Anything to stave off starvation and the cold.”

Littlefinger grinned, genuinely amused. “How astute, mind you'd have to be to survive the chaos beyond the Wall. They call me, ' _Little_ Finger'.” He purposely split his name to appeal to the Wildling King's amusement. Tormund laughed so deeply that most of the wine ended up on Littlefinger's clothes. No matter. “You fight for Lord Stark? That is a curious thing.”

“If you had seen what my men have, you'd fight for the bugger too. A man died and walked again. The gods must love his pretty face.”

“They most likely killed him to take a look.” Tormund laughed again while Littlefinger delicately sipped his ale. “It is true then,” Littlefinger continued, “Jon Snow was dead?”

“Dead as a Crow beyond the Wall! Aye... Should probably say somethin' else this far South.”

With a genuine smile, he raised his glass. It was refreshing to spend a moment with someone who had zero political allegiances and no tact with which to build them. “We shall have to think of something. More wine?”

*~*~*

“I wanted to see it a little closer,” Jon admitted, as the pair of wolves picked through the snow, crossing the short distance of open ice to the burned walls. Their camp meandered over the field surrounding _Winterfell_ accompanied by the clamour of pre-war bravery. “I dreamed of it, from the North. The warm fires of father's great hall. Arya's poor attempt at music. Robb's laugh screeching over the other lords as he feigned amusement.”

“My ill dancing,” Sansa nudged him gently with her shoulder. “Bran and Rickon thieving pastries from the main table.”

“Theon taught them that.”

“Ironborn to the last.”

Jon stopped, placing his hand on the collapsed wall. The cold made it through the layers of rabbit fur and leather. It reminded him of... He shuddered to think what it reminded him of. “He is dead, then...”

Sansa laid back against that frozen wall, embracing all the horror. “In a way. He breathes well enough but Ramsay took his soul, his honour, his future and his name. Those are trickling back to him but who knows if the river may fill the ocean. I sent him home. He promised to return but that will depend upon the Ironborn. We may never see him again.”

“Or Bran. I thought – well I _felt_ him in the North, beyond the Wall. It was probably the cold playing tricks. How could he be alive, Sansa? A cripple boy with no family or friends...”

Sansa did not want to think about her young brother's bones picked apart by crows as they lay in the snow. She'd seen her wolf torn apart by their vicious beaks, pecked incessantly. It was a vision she could not shake. The sinew snapping, splashing blood onto their feathers. “When it comes time to kill my husband, bring him to me. His life is _mine_. I want to see him die.”

Jon bowed his head, “My queen.”

She returned the gesture. “My king,” she whispered.

He smiled softly, taking her arm. Jon plucked her from the wall and together they rambled through the ruins of the castle. Memories lurked in every shadow. They were happy so they paused now and then, sharing stories.

“I am sorry,” Sansa said, after listening carefully for a while. “Mother bore you so much hate. It is not your fault that you were someone else's child.”

“Mother did not hate me,” Jon quickly corrected, “I reminded her of a painful thing. There was love enough, in her own way. She kept me.” The chandelier from the great hall was half buried in front of them, twisted by the fire. A candle was caught in one of the holds, untouched. “How did you bring the army of the _Vale_ to our cause? Was it Lysa?”

“Hardly. Lysa tried to throw me through the Moon Door. If you think mother's jealousy is enduring, you should have seen our aunt. Lord Baelish pulled me back from the edge. He is the one that is loyal to our cause.”

“I know nothing of the man.”

“I do. He will fight and he will die to see the North returned to the Starks. The reason does not matter.”

###  **FIVE FORTS – YI TI**

“Steady – steady – _careful!_ ”

Jorah pushed one of the horselords aside as _Drogon_ twisted, snapping at the man trying to measure up a saddle. His jaws came within inches but the short man fell into the dirt, flailing on his back in surprise. The dragon lost interest, setting his immense head onto the sand with a puff of smoke.

“You behave...” Jorah whispered, before offering his hand to the man. _“Dragons are-”_ he was interrupted. The furious little man kicked his legs and was on his feet in a move akin to witchcraft. He started ranting at Jorah in a foreign language, hissing and spitting on the dirt before one of the other men dragged him away to continue on the harness.

Jorah rested against the dragon, moving with the rise and fall of _Drogon's_ breaths. He sang to the creature – songs of his home – words of the _First Men_ that Northerners repeated but did not understand. For all he knew he was singing nonsense but the words were beautiful and they calmed the dragon.

“You're a soft old thing,” he paused. “Like your mother. It's the temper you have to work on. You can't go around biting anything that nips at you. If a king did that he'd have no empire to rule over.” Jorah shook his head in dismay. He was giving advice to the wrong dragon. He returned to his songs, looking out over the camp. The starlight caught the dune behind. It roared up over the settlement like a glacial sea, edging closer when you weren't paying attention, consuming everything. Even the forts would be covered by the sandy flanks. Buried with the rest of man's folly.

Jorah held up his hands, levelling them in front of his body. They were vibrating as if submerged in freezing water. The marks on his skin glistened under the evening light. _What magic is this?_ He thought, as the shadow of the sand dune began to move, curling over like a wave about to crash onto the shore. Closer. The shadow fell across the camp. Then over him. Darkness. The breath of sand...

Jorha fell to his knees and the vision shattered. There dune was returned to its place. The stars stretched above. His hands were steady and the writing pale. Had any of it happened? He could not say.

_Drogon_ nudged Jorah with his snout, pushing him onto his hands and knees because he'd stopped singing. Before he could stand, Jorah found a pair of bare feet brushing through the dirt in front. His eyes lifted and there he found a wild sort of man, neither _Jogos Nhai_ nor _Yi Tish._ With a red beard and green eyes he had the pale face of an _Andal_.

“Tricky things, dragons...” The man said, offering his hand to the knight.

“You speak the Common Tongue,” Jorah replied, ignoring the man, using the dragon instead.

The man lowered his hand, taking no offence. Stubborn pride was a common trait among men of the sword. “A man speaks little else,” he confessed, “which makes most of this a mystery.”

_Drogon_ kept one golden eye on the man. “Lorath?” Jorah searched the accent.

“A speck on the map for these fine men,” he gestured at his captors spread as far as one could see behind. “Disappoint reigned when they found none but parchment in my purse. The lonely emperor set all his captives free when the demons came – put swords in their hands. A man gave his blade back.”

“What does that make you – a priest or a fool?”

“An explorer. A man was a merchant first but the repetitive ports and seas, the smell of fish rotting in the sun – it is not the life a man dreams of from his frigid shore.”

Jorah seriously considered letting _Drogon_ have the man. What use was a poet in the middle of a war? It would have been a kindness. There was only suffering and death on his horizon. He wanted to see things – oh he would see them. He'd see the depravity of man. The filth that rots in his heart. If he lived long enough, he might even see it surpassed by the gods and all their rage.

“You didn't run, then. When emperor freed you? Why not return to your gentle shores? Of all the places to survive what's coming, Lorath might well be one.”

“The night the others ran, fleeing into the foothills of Krazaaj Zazqa with their new swords, everything was still. It was an odd night – no moon at all, only restless clouds culling the stars from the horizon. At the depth of night, the screaming started. Never, sir, have you heard terror cut through the hearts of men. A man swears their skin was torn from their flesh while they were still alive. No freed man ran after that.

“Pol Qo abandoned those mountains, dragged his people from one end of the realm to the next, gathering villages as he went. They came willingly. Every night since, something pursued, edging closer with each passage of the moon. It hunts. The Jogos Nhai have an old song about the black sisters standing guard at dusk. They think these these old scraps in the sand will save them from the night.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Jorah reasoned he must have one of those faces. People told him things they shouldn't, spoke to him without introduction.

“A man has a dragon.”

“A _queen_ has a dragon,” Jorah corrected. “He feasts on unwelcome hands that stray too close. Do not be fooled by his cheerful song. Dragons sing to ward off danger.”

The man considered the dragon, taking in every curve of its fury. Such a thing must be born of fire – how else could it be construct of violent edges? There were dragon bones in _Lorath's_ temples. He'd spend hours in their shadow, admiring the creatures that once picked their way over the seas, perching on the ragged cliffs that stood against the _Shivering Sea_. He had even held a dragon egg in Old Man Hightower's lonely keep.

“A man does not want to die a footnote – some faceless pile of bones in a desert, picked over by sand snakes. We served the dragons once, perhaps again. There is a great wash of hate in the Western lands for dragon blood. Their petty wars tore crowns apart, set ancient families against their oaths and nearly collapsed the realm. If you mean to return to Westeros,” he lowered his voice unnecessarily, shifting closer to the perpetually uncomfortable knight, “which I believe you do. _Words_ will have to clear your way. Let me tell her story. Let it wash upon the Red Keep and enamour the masses. They could _love_ her, a silver queen from old blood.”

“That is all well and good,” Jorah replied, not entirely unmoved by the idea. It is something the dwarf might take a fondness to. He was a creature of words. “You forget, we are at the edge of the world with nothing save a dragon for birds.”

“A man has ravens,” he replied. “Cages of the things, squabbling with naught to do. Tell me her story. A man will polish it nice and sell it to the world.”

Jorah agreed for lack of anything else to do while the horselords fashioned _Drogon's_ saddle. The pair of them made a pit of fire in the sand. Jorah began with the stories his father told – a baby, born in a terrible storm of blood and thrown to the winds.

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

Davos sat alone in the starlight. Stannis was dead, somewhere in the dark curve of forest in front. He was at peace with the thought, whispering a few old prayers to the night, asking that the King's soul might find its way back to his family and the snows bury his bones deep. The Queen too, he understood her to be dead. The Red Woman would not say how and there were no men left to ask.

He'd heard rumours since he'd been in this camp. Rumours that spread through the North of the King that burned his living child and the mother that looked on, wailing at the flames. You could find her swinging beneath a tree, they said, her tears making ice on the snow. The child was left a smear of ash, blown about in the wind.

If there was any truth found in those whispers, Davos would tie the witch to a pyre of her own and watch her transformation into soot. He was a patient man. Revenge could wait. Her magic served a purpose for the moment but bringing Snow back to the living did not undo the horrors of her past. That was the promise he made to the snow – to the sweet girl with nothing but joy in her heart. Most of his whispered prayers were for her.

What kind of god gave power to a demon like Melisandre? _Not a just god,_ Davos thought. Perhaps all the gods were malevolent. The old gods. The storm god. The drowned god. R'hllor. Seven gods. Black Goat. Horse god. Maybe it was all the same fucking god. A god that had four of his boys wrapped in its claws.

He would rather make gods of men.

“The world is a better place without gods. Men make mistakes but they die and those mistakes die with them. The mistakes of the undead live forever. Nobody wants that.”

Quiet as a shadow, Melisandre appeared behind him. “There are no answers in the snow. Believe me, I have looked.”

“Excuse me, I have preparations to make.” Davos replied, standing.

“You were the only one that believed I could bring Jon back. Where did your faith come from?” she asked, reaching for his arm.

Davos sidestepped from her grasp. “It wasn't faith. It was a foolish, blind grasp in the dark.” The Red Woman smiled, making Davos' skin crawl.

“ _That_ is faith.” She assured him.

“Most would call it lunacy. Mind you, so is what we plan to do come the rise of the sun. Men fighting men when the dead are at the door. There's a reason the gods laugh.”

*~*~*

Dawn.

Watery flames rippled around the orb as it struggled to climb out of the snow. It burned away the swirling layers of mist, woke the forests and finally, drew the Stark army into the snow.

“Hear them?” Podrick whispered, as he fastened Lady Brienne's armour into place. They were among the last to make ready. The rest were on the field, staking their spot for the fight.

“I feel them,” she replied, lifting her arm so that Podrick could wrap the metal around it. “It's coming through the snow. Ramsay has a vast army.”

“Larger than ours?”

“It will be a fight, if that is what you're asking. Do you have any armour, Podrick?”

“What you see, my lady.”

What she saw was a weary panel of leather held together by cracked buckles. “When you are finished here, we will pass via the _Vale's_ armoury. Baelish has everything spare.”

“Yes, my lady.” Podrick frowned. Paused. Ducked under her arm and stopped in front of her. Brienne had to stoop to meet his questioning gaze. “Why, my lady?” he asked, baffled.

“Because if you fall at the first stray arrow, who is going to get me out of all this rock once the battle is done?”

_Jamie Lannister_ , Podrick thought with a grin.

“Why are you smiling? You might be dead by nightfall.”

“No reason, my lady...” he assured her.

“Well – don't. You'll unsettle the other soldiers. They're outside trying to be grim.”

*~*~*

“Have you ever seen a Mormont in full armour?” Davos asked Jon Stark, who he'd found wandering in the mud between the tents with his patent stoic manner.

“Not yet. My sister has a few in her service, I believe.”

“She does. I would not wish to meet one on the field. They are wild, Your Grace, half a foot taller than a normal man and solid, like the best of your Wildlings. It is no wonder Bear Island has never been conquered. No one would dare if they want their arms and legs attached after the fight.”

“A shame there's only sixty-two of them.”

“That is probably enough with their tiny Lady. I am more afraid of her than I am of you. Shall we start the march?” Jon nodded. “I shall find your sister. The army is split between the pair of you – it would be right to ride out together.”

“She cannot be in the midst of the battle!”

“You try and stop her.”

“Ser Davos?”

Davos stopped. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“You have prepared for war against the Boltons before, under Stannis.”

“Last of his name. The Baratheons and the Starks felled a tyrant king together. I am honoured to stand beside you this day.”

“Davos Seaworth, you are a good man.”

“I am man,” Davos chuckled, finding a moment of joy in the morning, “nothing more.”

*~*~*

“A true Stark...” Littlefinger ducked into the tent. Sansa was dressed for war, wrapped in steel with a wolf's head on her armour and a fur cape latched at her shoulders. She carried a small sword around her waist – no doubt sharpened specially for Ramsay's neck. He did not doubt for one moment that she would draw it. “A wolf if ever I saw one.”

“You are not in armour, Lord Baelish?”

“It does not suit.” She smirked at his joke. “I've no talent for arms, as your uncle taught me. I thank him every day for that lesson. Its memory has kept me alive.”

“I am no fighter either,” Sansa replied. Her old dog, he was a fighter. She wished he was there now, growling at her enemies. For all she knew he laid dead in a ditch, bones like her wolf – bleached and cold. Maybe he lived and wandered the world, free of trouble. Whichever it was, Sandor Clegane would not be sharing a fire with her in this life. “Today my blade will know Ramsay's blood.”

“I believe you.”

“When it is done and my husband is dead, we will talk.”

Petyr was not sure if he had heard correctly. He tilted his head, stepping forward, about to speak when they were interrupted by Davos Seaworth crunching in, more armour than sense.

“Apologies Your Grace, my Lord,” Davos nodded at them both. “We are ready to ride.”

*~*~*

Tormund gnawed loudly on a duck bone, tearing bits of meat from it as he stood on the ice, draped in fur with a crooked sword at his hip and some ghastly hooked whip strung on the other side. The sound of bone crunching so early in the morning caught the attention of a Crow. The Night's Watch man fixed his pale eyes on the savage, shaking his head.

“How can yer eat at a time like this?” he asked.

One orange, arched eyebrow curved in the Crow's direction. “Time like what?” Was all he said.

*~*~*

“Nervous?”

“Sh...” Sansa hissed at her brother to hush.

Every few minutes he found something else to say while they waited for the bastard's army to appear along the ridge. The bulk of the _Vale's_ men remained hidden in the wood, kept out of sight three-thousand on both flanks ready to ambush the Boltons once they were on the flats. The rest amassed behind them, stretching across the breadth of the bowl, concealed under Stark banners. Their armour glistened in the new sun, almost like they were made of ice. A crow carved through the sky in front, released by the young Mormont lady. If none of them survived, her birds would be the only record of this dance. A dying song in the ice.

“Here they come...” Sansa added, as a bright glare caught on the cusp of the hill in front.

A moment later, the ridge became an army. It was a great wash of metal, hammering step by step toward them. Then came the banners, scattered among the lines of men. The flayed bastards followed by the black sun of the _Karstarks_ . Half a dozen others appeared – Sansa marked them all. She was making a list, one that she'd whisper to herself after the swords had been laid down. _The North remembers..._ Those who stood in opposition to their sacred oaths were being etched upon her heart.

“Your husband is here.” Jon pointed to the front of the army where a cluster of men rode ahead of the rest. One carried the _Bolton_ banner. The other was the man himself. The bastard that killed his father. _Short_ was Jon's first impression of his counterpoint.

“I never did bring a wedding gift. His head would look rather fine on its own, liberated from his corpse, don't you think?” The true depth of her ice began to show as she watched the approaching nightmare spill into the valley. “He'll have hounds with him. Stay on your horse.”

Jon's sword lifted. He held it parallel to his shoulder. Behind him, the first wave of soldiers marched forward with full length shields. They marched in front of Sansa and her brother, taking up the front line. When in place, they jabbed their shields into the snow and formed a wall of steel with every edge sharpened as though it were a sword's blade. Their helmets were adorned with iron spikes, ready to stab through any foe that cleared the shields. Behind them waited the _Wildlings_ and Crows. Their weapons were out. They shifted, warming up their muscles while the _Vale's_ soldiers kept still as stone.

“Hold...” Jon commanded, keeping his arm steady.

Sansa kicked her horse, turned and galloped through the army. There was a small rise of snow behind their number where one of _Winterfell's_ turrets had fallen and been buried. Brienne was on horseback beside her, holding a long poll with the Stark banner rippling in the strong wind. Sansa took it from her, taking the weight without complaint. She could feel the woods shift in expectation, the _Vale's_ army at her command. The Bears were with them, scattered through their number.

“What is that?” Brienne whispered, as two crosses were rolled over the hill on Bolton's side.

Closer, on the flat with Davos at his side, Jon saw the two wooden crosses wheeled in by teams of men strapped to them with ropes. Strung upon the barbaric forms was a small boy and a direwolf.

“Rickon...” Jon whispered, swaying dangerously in his saddle.

“Your Grace?” Davos asked, fixated by the horrific image of a child turned inside-out. His mind thought of Shireen, her flesh peeling back in the flame. Sometimes he thought the wind carried her screams but it was only the howling from the ruins.

“My young brother,” Jon clenched his hands around the reins to stop himself from crying out. He wanted to unsheathe his sword and rage at Ramsay's army. One man in the field with the gods of his father at his back. He could murder them all and send them into the black.

“That's what he wants,” Davos murmured. “Your rage. Hold the line.”

Some of Ramsay's men carried flaming torches. They rolled the crosses onto the flat – mounted them in the ice and lined their army beside. Ramsay took a torch and then rode along his men. He stopped at the flayed direworlf, leaned from his horse and caught the cross with the flame. It erupted, burning furiously. He rode again, toward the other cross. Jon averted his gaze as the fire ate the remains of his brother. Two pillars of black smoke curdled the air.

The harrowing sight joined the names on Sansa's heart. If Ramsay thought to make himself monstrous in their eyes he had failed.

“In the face of death, he is a child,” said Sansa. “The men remember their orders?”

“Kill only what they must,” Brienne repeated. “His army will be yours.”

“Have them hold the Stark banners higher. I want the traitors to know they march against their oaths.”

*~*~*

“Now?” Davos asked. Jon Stark nodded, Davos repeated it to a young boy on the ground who ran off, skirting in front of the line of shields. He scampered over the snow – the only soul between the two armies.

The boy dived at the ground, sliding on his stomach to a hidden trench that had been dug in front of the Stark forces. An unassuming stick marked the place. The boy brushed away a few layers of white then peeled back the material that covered the edge of an enormous, hidden trench.

The opposing army leered so close that the boy could see his foe's faces. Several were marking him, feeling the hilts of their swords. A few drew. Dangling his arms over the edge, the boy smashed flint together. The sparks struck. _Flash. Flash. Flash_. Like lightening in a storm. Then it caught. The flames took to the straw, found the oil and tore off in both directions.

A wall of flame leaped out of the ground, throwing the boy backwards with a thunderous _whoosh!_ He scrambled, crawling first then running into the safety of the flanks which opened to let him through.

The Red Woman felt the flames rise up. She closed her eyes, standing on the highest wall of the _Winterfell_ ruins, then lifted her arms up to the Lord of Light and murmured her words. In the pit, the flames thickened, somehow churning on each other, feeding and growing.

Jon's view of Ramsay became obscured by smoke. _'Hold!'_ Davos commanded beside him. “Arms!” Jon clenched the fist on his outstretched hand. Metal screeched across the battlefield as a two thousand Northern swords and eight-hundred _Wildlings_ brandished their steel. The forests remained quiet. Not a sound. Waiting.

Five thousand bore down from Ramsay's side, heavy with blood-lust and pernicious venom toward the Stark's previous failure to protect them from the Bolton's insidious violence. Now they rode with their torturer to avoid his blade. Robett Glover was among them, leading dismal ranks of tired men, barely recovered from the last campaign. The desperate visions of Robb's war were made anew on the ice below. Flames greeted their nightmare and behind, the banners of their former warden. _None of them would stand against Eddard Stark._ Not one man except the bastard at their helm.

Glover paused at the ridge, taking in the black skeleton of _Winterfell_. Its broken bits and frozen Godwood said all there was about the North. It was an ember, spent and dead – all of their souls with it. He wished for a moment that he could halt his men, still their swords. Slaughtering the valour below held no payment for his dead. He felt the hole deepening, dug with his own hands. Those men that died did not die for this. That's when he caught it – the briefest glint of light from the pine forest surrounding the valley. Glover looked again at the Stark army of _Wildlings_ and small but nobler houses than he could hope to be. There was something amiss with the battle lines. Ramsay had not seen it.

Robett whistled for his man. A horse stormed over, pulling close beside. Glover whispered to the runner who nodded a few times then vanished over the rise.

*~*~*

_Wildlings_ loved a good fight. They were born for it, pillaging since they learned to crawl. Surprise attacks were different to this – waiting, watching the enemy amass. It was a style of warfare they'd seen thrust upon them, always to their doom. Better to fight the living than the dead, some thought. At least there was hope. If they survived, the dead were next. There was a murmur of fear between them.

Not Tormund. As the army marched close enough to hear their cries, Tormund made one of his own.

“Let's show these cunts a good time!” he shouted.

The _Wildlings_ echoed back, beating weapons against the ground in an unsettlingly familiar sound to the Northern lords, accustomed to hearing it outside their castles.

*~*~*

Bolton's men were first into the fray. They stormed the flames, vaulting over the pits with spears plunged into the snow. It burned their armour, searing the flesh. Their weight hit the wall of shields. The men beneath them crumbled to their knees, absorbing the impact. Together they growled, pushed up from the ground and threw the aggressors into the fire pit.

“ _Ours is the fury...”_ Davos whispered, as the first swords ran aground.

Screams died in the flames. Shields cut the limbs of fallen men, parting flesh in tides of blood that quickly turned the snow red.

“Hold...” Davos said again, beside his new king. Jon's arm was steady, his sword unsheathed. They drew Bolton's forces deeper into their ranks, allowing them to clear the flames. While ever there were men on the hill, he'd hold.

“We must move soon,” Jon cautioned. Bolton's men were fighting through the lines, massacring _Vale_ soldiers until they faltered at the giant's feet. Brandishing part of a tree, _Wun Wun_ swiped its base along the snow and set a dozen men to flight. Some landed in the fire, others in the heart of Stark's army where they were swiftly beaten unconscious. “Why are the Glover's lingering on the hill?”

“It is odd, I admit,” Davos replied. “Seems he is waiting for something.”

“I cannot hold.”

“They are out of reach. If we go now...”

“No choice.”

Ramsay was already beyond the fire. His horse found a path through the violence, trampling bodies of men, Bolton and Stark alike. He had a sick grin on his lips and blood running down half his armour from a recent butchering. Ramsay lifted his sword, pointed it directly at Sansa Stark and made a vulgar gesture.

“Sure you don't want me to kill him?” Davos asked, repulsed by the creature.

“Now!” Jon lowered his arm and the men watching from the trees pulled back on taut bow strings. A second later, the sky went black with arrows. They curved out of the forest until gravity took hold, tapering their steel heads down towards the flailing mess of men. The bulk fell on the Bolton forces, striking through armour, nailing them to the ice. Another wave dimmed the light, making the line of fire all the brighter. Ramsay let his head fall back, mad laughter ringing out over the field.

“What is it, my Lady?” Brienne asked. Sansa watched the edge of the Bolton lines.

“A horseman disappeared beyond the ridge. Now he is returned, riding into the ranks of the Glovers. They're lingering at the back of the field when they should have joined.”

One of the arrows from the wood diverted, crossing the battle to land on the soft rise of snow near Sansa. Her horse stepped sideways in surprise, nudging into Brienne's. Podrick alighted his, plucking the arrow from the snow. There was a message wrapped around its shaft.

“From Lord Baelish,” Podrick said, unravelling it at Sansa's request. “ _The Glovers send their regards._ What does that mean?”

“He's turned,” Sansa nodded for Podrick to mount his horse. “Ride through the camp, send word to the men. The Glovers are ours. You have minutes... Then the trap closes. Don't be there when it does. Understand?”

“Your Grace...” Podrick nodded, riding off into the battle.

The hounds came next.

Spoiling for flesh, staved to madness, they snapped at the leather harnesses holding them and dragged the burly Bolton soldiers toward the battle against their will. One of the men stumbled, releasing his grip on the dogs. They sprang to freedom, dragging their leashes behind as they overtook the horses.

One dog remained, smelling blood at its feet. It reeled to the Bolton man, face down in the snow. The beast opened its jaws and clamped around the crown of the man's head, tearing into the skull. It shook violently, trying to rip the man's head from his neck, paws on his shoulders. Other men came to help, striking at the dog. The blades through its flesh meant nothing. It bit again, this time at the soft skin around the neck. It tore a hole, dragging the main artery into the snow with a growl, pulsing and squirting blood over those that tried to help. When the dog stilled, a sword through its chest, there were human veins wrapped in its fangs.

A _Vale_ man was the first to find himself in the path of Ramsay's beasts. One dog had singled him out, dodging its way through sparring men with its head down, fur pricked up around its neck like a wolf and gums dribbling over the snow with anticipation.

The _Vale_ man quickly fought off a Bolton, pushing the corpse from his sword while it was still alive. His hands shook, waiting the attack. He could hear it sneering, pulling its lip back to show curved teeth, as long as a wolf but with some kind of ungodly anger.

“No!” A _Wildling_ appeared beside him, as the dog crouched on its haunches. “Like this.”

The _Wildling_ offered the drooling jaws his forearm, turning his body to the side. The dog latched on, hanging from its bite. The leathers and fur were too deep for its teeth to break the skin. Before it could release and try again, the _Wildling_ swung his sword and took the head clean off the dog. He shook his arm, loosening the bloody head until it fell beside the carcass.

“Yeah?” The _Wildling_ slapped the man on the back as if training a child to hunt. They'd seen worse wolves behind the Wall. “Next one's yours.”

Jon singled Ramsay out from the battle. He turned his horse in tight circles, holding up the Stark banner. Jon swung it side to side like a pendulum counting away their last seconds on earth.

Even through the smoke Ramsay caught it. Pretty little bastard... They could be brothers. Maybe their fathers fucked the same whore. Technically they were brothers _in law_. What a horrible thought, to be related to a brooding bore like that.

Ramsay paraded his horse closer, cutting down a young _Wildling_ boy. His gut opened and spilled over his fur boots. He dropped his sword. Placed his hands over the gaping hole. Looked up toward the sky and fell dead. “One of yours?” Ramsay shouted.

“Only one of us has to die!” Jon screamed, pointing the Stark banner right at Ramsay's heart.

“All men must die...” he replied calmly. Ramsay paused, watching the boiling mass of swords. It was a riot of violence. An offering to ancient, virulent gods.

A dance for bastards.

 


	42. Wolves

 

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

Jon lured Ramsay through the skirmish, edging him away from the safety of his guard. It was a process – Ramsay was not rash with his own life. He had to be coaxed like a ground spider to the edge of its lair. A thread here – a promise there. One leg into the cold air... The _Wildlings_ picked apart the largest Bolton men escorting him, tearing their banners down, turning the opening chords of order into a pit of chaos where bears hunted and the black sun froze.

Arrows fell between the bastards, piercing snow, shield and flesh alike. Men fought and died amidst their heated gaze. Their faces were hung behind a wall of glass, two edges of a coin. Madness. Greatness. Feared. Fearsome. Bastard. King.

_Pain..._

Stark discarded his banner to the filthy mud. It was trampled at once, vanished in the bedlam. An ironwood shaft protruded from the folds of his armour with crimson Bolton feathers fluttering next to his shoulder.

Ramsay turned on his archer and murdered him where he stood, snatching his bow and shoving its recurve through his back. The archer cried out, pawing futilely at his lord's horse. “I said he was _mine_ ,” Ramsay spat, pushing the bow deeper. He locked eyes with the suffering, staring death down until the last. His grip released and the archer dropped.

The wood burned inside Jon's arm. He felt the arrow head tear his muscle, forcing its way through. He'd known it before, in the blades of his Night's Watchmen, driven into his stomach. He'd felt them as he collapsed onto the snow, staring at the black pit where the stars should have been. There was nothing at all. A faceless god. The embrace of cold earth where the dead make their beds.

An experienced commander from the _Vale_ stormed up beside the Stark King. Without a word he took the young Stark's arm, holding it straight while the boy was frozen in shock. He hit the nock hard, pushing the arrow deeper and out the other side with a sickening tear of flesh. The horses beneath shifted at Jon's scream. The commander held steady, snapping off the bloodied arrow tip. He tossed it aside, wrapped his hand around the shaft and dragged it back out. A nod and he was gone, charging into the carnage.

Woken, Jon watched blood dribble from the wound, over the stomach of his pale mare and into the mud. The men were wrong. He was not a god. He was mortal, like the rest.

_Wun Wun_ waded through the flanks. Cries of shock accompanied each swing of his log. A wild dog dragged half a corpse in front of Jon's horse. A Bolton man who saw threw up at the sight and lost his arm a moment later. He fell into his own muck, dying face down as hooves crushed his skull to bits.

Jon was not born to this. He had to find something to drive him through and he found it in Ramsay's eyes, egging him on, calling him to violence.

He kicked his horse. Her hooves marked out the march of death. Descending into ice. Escaping the wave of swords and spray of blood. Forging a path through the screams. Jon lifted his sword.

*~*~*

Littlefinger lay in wait, positioned under the shadow of the frozen pines. Their needles shivered with the pounding hooves below, shedding snow over his army. Sansa Stark remained a statue in the ice. The battle raged but Petyr's attention narrowed to her, waiting for the command. So deep was his need to atone a murdered love that he'd thrown himself to the will of a wolf queen. He was not a man to believe in the noble rights of lords or the valour that brought men under the wing of conquerors but waiting in the tree line, Littlefinger felt something stir in his flesh. Was that loyalty? Love? _Guilt..._ Whatever it was, he was sure it signed his death.

Sansa lowered the Stark Banner, pointing the wolf head at the heart of battle.

“Forward!” Littlefinger cried out.

It was the loudest noise he'd ever made – echoed by a soldier in the opposite bank of forest. Together, the forces of the _Vale_ emerged from the trees and closed in on the Bolton forces. The Mormonts outran them, pummelling through the snow like possessed monsters given swords by the Old Gods themselves. What would Glover do? That was the question. Littlefinger, who had no talent for battle, remained upon the ridge. As his men entered the fight, he watched the line of Glover bannermen and the lord at their front, pacing nervously on his horse.

“Come on, old fool...” Littlefinger implored. “Be smart. Live.”

Glover's forces drew their swords, formed a line _and began slaying the men beside them._ Attacking Bolton's lines from behind.

“The North!” Robett Glover cried, feeling the rage of war burn in his blood. His sons watched, waiting him on the other side of life. He'd fed the nest of treachery too long. The first Bolton he came across was a man he'd served two campaigns with. When he lifted his sword, the Bolton cowered, confusion in his eyes. Even when Robett's sword dug in, the man whispered, _'my lord?'_

It was a bloody great fucking mess of men that once played as children. A few scheming old men and their pride started the war long ago and they'd been left to finish it.

“Surrender your arms!” Glover had his men shout, wherever they could. “Lay down your weapons, join us if you wish to live!”

Few had the stomach to fight Lord Glover. Those that did lay broken in the snow.

*~*~*

“Concede!” Jon roared, chasing Ramsay through the blaze of swords.

His men were falling fast. They'd seen the two flanks of _Vale_ soldiers and their own men turn with Glover riders at their throats. Suddenly they were outnumbered, fighting on the lower ground. Even their spirits felt the blow. With the ruins of a great house literally smouldering in the backdrop, most felt that they were betraying the oaths their fathers and their fathers before them had sworn.

The sick bastard fed off the massacre. The more that died, the larger Ramsay's grin and the wilder the look of ecstasy in his eyes. He would have burned every nation to the ground if only to hear their screams.

A full-plated soldier had been flung into the air from the trunk _Wun Wun's_ log. The man fought against nothing, clearing the tops of spears, swords and snapping jaws. He hit the side of a white mare. The ribs of the animal cracked beneath him while the force sent the beast tumbling to the side with a frightened whinny. Jon was on her back, plunged into the filth. His shoulder hit first, shooting a wave of pain through the arrow wound. Then the weight of his horse fell onto his legs, pinning them to the ground.

The horse writhed, trying to get up. Mud stuck to her coat. Boots trampled her tail. Jon used the body of a fallen man to pull himself out from under her. He spun around as soon as he was free, running his hands down the beast's neck. She lifted her head, looking at her master with a frightened brown eye. The screaming surrounds threatened to swallow them both. The mare placed her head back in the freezing mud and waited.

Jon Stark stood in the middle of the field – the ruins of _Winterfell_ shadowing one side while fires burned on the other. The witch's words putrefied the air, inciting the carnage while the Red God feasted. Now it was Ramsay drawing the Stark bastard through the savagery.

Ramsay retreated into the ruins where the snow was white and the noise of war muted by the burned walls. He took a horn from his waist, held it to his lips and blew. It split through the air, calling his dogs from the fray. Most were dead, mounted on spears by the _Wildlings_ who like to look at the bleeding heads while they fought. One creature appeared – a mangy grey thing with thin, wiry fur, eyes like ice and a missing ear. It clambered over the ruins, skipping on the black pieces of stone with the scratch of claw.

Alone, save for the dog, Jon shouted at Ramsay. “You'd set a hound upon a wolf?”

“You're no Stark...” Ramsay replied, settling into his saddle to watch.

Jon felt his boots crunch through the top layer of ice covering the virgin snow below. The dog had its eye on him, pacing along the short wall, waiting for a place to launch. Jon could hear its ravaged pants stick inside a withered throat. The creature was starved – half dead already, living off bone and carrion.

“Concede!” Jon screamed at the bastard, though he kept his eyes fixed on the dog. “Your men are dead. Can you hear the hush?”

There was a _hush_. Beyond the blackened walls an eerie quiet settled over the bowl of ice. Men were laying down their swords, kneeling in the muck.

“That is the sound of the close. I know because I've heard it before. There are truly terrifying things in this world, Ramsay but you are not one of them. You are a boy with an army. I've seen the dead take up arms. I know what waits us on the other side of the sword. Better to be alive. Death is the Long Night the stories whisper.”

The Red Witch was balanced on a narrow wall, crumbled at one edge with huge cracks threatening to take the rest. Jon saw her as she was – a pale old woman with silver hair tussling with a light dusting of fresh snow. From the depths of the pit, the flames bowed, swayed and raged at her command. Jon could hear them, burning from inside his chest as if the Red God had left something in there – a dagger that turned at her words.

*~*~*

The flames were taking form. Littlefinger, brave enough to ride his horse to the edge of a snow drift overlooking the battle, witnessed the orange wall flicker into _green_. There was a voice coming from within the dancing light, something screaming at the world of men from beyond the veil. The men heard it too – Bolton, Stark – Umber and Wilding. They spun to face it, staggering backwards. Only the Mormonts held fast to their swords – confronting the fire as if they knew what lurked there.

_Magic_ Littlefinger thought. The carefully constructed world of kings was at an end. His gaze shifted from the battle to the ice-locked mountain range beyond – to  _The North_ and the winds of winter. Man's skirmishes were immaterial to the hilt of a sorcerer and the breath of a raging dragon.

*~*~*

The dog had a grip on Jon's leather skirts, pulling him through the ice inside the ruin. Jon swung at the mad thing. The dog shifted, side to side like lightening in a storm. Growling filled his ears. Rotting flesh from previous kills stuck to his fur, stinking the air. Desperately, Jon reached out with his free hand – grabbing the filthy creature by the scruff. It yelped furiously, letting go of the leather to bark and bite at Jon. The last time Jon held a dog like this it had been his tiny snow-pup, his  _Ghost_ whom he'd left in the flames. If there had ever been any love in this beast, Ramsay had killed it like he did everything else.

Jon ended the animal, slicing the dog's neck.

“Ramsay!” he screamed again. “Come down and _fight_ you bastard!”

Ramsay had already dismounted and scaled a section of the ruins. He was heading toward the sorceress, drawn by her power. He formed a corrupt smirk at the thought of fucking the witch, tying her to a bed of flames when he was done and letting his men have what was left. Would she whisper her agony too – maybe call vengeance upon him from her fire demon... Exciting. He looked forward to meeting the gods of the underworld. If Melisandre was aware of the danger encroaching she showed no sign of it.

“I'm a little busy, Snow!” Ramsay replied, leaning over the wall for a moment to watch Jon stumble through the ice toward a set of burned steps.

Stark's bastard bent double, gripping to the ice-covered ruins which slid treacherously beneath his touch. Locked in heavy armour and elegant furs, he possessed none of his little brother's climbing skills. Bran would have been over the steps, up the wall and onto the awkward thrusts of the centre keep which stood jagged in the centre of the rubble. He'd always been more bird than man – perched from an alcove like a crow.

Ravens watched eagerly, staking out corpses on the field – waiting for them to be abandoned. Where Jon saw a slaughter, their beaks prepared for a feast.

“I said _stop!_ ” Jon was on the wall with Ramsay, Mormont's sword in his grip. “Enough.”

“What?” Ramsay was momentarily distracted from his prey. “You want to have a chat now? I'm sorry, Snow – busy at the moment...”

“Stop!”

Ramsay sighed dramatically, brandishing his dagger. He'd been caught mid-stride. “If you won't wait your turn, I'll be forced to kill you first.”

*~*~*

“Glover – you _traitor_.”

Harrion Karstark had lost his horse, half his men but none of his will. A long, silver moustache was plaited into a beard the hung over his breastplate. Frost clung to it, obscuring the inlaid star that had been flown on banners above the North for as long as anyone could remember. The black star of winter itself. The Karstarks were all Starks at the root.

“I know loyalty,” Harrion trudged toward Robett, more angry than violent. “My family stood with the Starks since the First Men founded this damned place and what for? A pup takes my Lord's head in the middle of that fucking castle.” His sword stabbed the air in the direction of _Winterfell_. “There was honour in them once – a boy's cock brought an end to it and Lannister gold buried what was left for good.”

That boy was dead. The Starks were not. “If you are seeking honour, Harrion, look to the child beyond the flame. Forget Robb and the boy on the wall, that girl is more Eddard than Eddard himself. One last time, honour your name. Save your fucking men and join us.”

More of them fell behind, cut down by unwilling blades. Glover regretted every Karstark life.

“My oath was to the Starks,” Glover added, begging the other lord. “Everything after that was treachery. This is the first honest thing I've done in years. What about you, are you going to follow that sick dog of a bastard? Roose would command you to gut that little shit and you know it. Ramsay will kill you all. There's no future in your vengeance. Where does it end? When you're all bones? Jon has come to defend the North, Sansa to rebuild. Are you part of the future or does your ancient house die here?”

Whatever his heart, Harrion's choices evaporated. Glover's men and a pair of _Wildlings_ held swords to his throat. He had no choice but to bend the knee, discarding his weapon. His men followed, kneeling on the field of battle – laying their swords in the mud. The Stark army secured them leaving the Boltons to fight alone. Sheer numbers overpowered their fury. Before the sun began its arc toward the ground, the battle was done.

The field's attention was now drawn to wall of _Winterfell_ where three figures balanced precariously on the stone. One, a witch, muttered at the sky. The other two stalked toward each other. Ramsay drew a bastard sword and dagger. Jon clutched the hilt of _Longclaw_ , whispering words of the North. His sword was made for greater things than slaying bastards. _No, not slaying_ , he reminded himself. Ramsay belonged to his sister. He kept seeing his poor brother Rickon, a child – slain and displayed like meat. Jon's arm dripped, a steady rain from his wound.

Ramsay lunged – barking like a mad dog. Jon stumbled, nearly tumbling from the wall in surprise. “Did I scare you, wolf?” Ramsay taunted. “Death has made you skittish. I can send you back there if you like – into the darkness. It'll all be over.”

Jon's eyes diverted for a moment, as did the crowd's below. Before Ramsay noticed, he lowered his sword slightly. “What was it like, killing your father?” Jon asked, taking small steps forward – pushing Ramsay along the wall while holding his attention.

“Liberating!” he replied.

“The gods will curse you for it.”

“I was cursed before I was born. What more can they do to me? I fuck the gods. Old and new like I fucked your sister. She's a screamer – or do you already know? The she-wolf might give me a child yet. Could you let it live, rear it as a Stark? Or would you tear it from her breast and toss it in the fire for the Red God to feast? Your witch would like that.”

Jon's grip on _Longclaw_ was so tight he was in danger of snapping the pummel off.

“You should watch out for that money-grabber from the _Fingers_. Small men want what they cannot have. I hear he's been trying to get his cock wet since he realised my wife looks like your mother. Sorry. Not your mother, bastard. Sansa's more a whore than a queen but then, I hear that's where his talent lies. I -”

Ramsay was silenced by a blade from behind. It was held flush to his neck, angled to the vein. A slender arm wrapped around his chest, holding him in a morbid embrace. He'd recognise that scent of winter rose anywhere. She'd stunk out the keep with it.

“Sansa – _my dear_ ,” Ramsay drawled. He moved to turn but her knife dug against his skin in earnest. Jon approached, the tip of _Longclaw_ now at Ramsay's heart should he choose to fight. “A battle is no place for a noble lady. Come home, wife.”

Sansa was cold. Her hand, steady as steel. _She was home._ “I killed your whore,” she replied, tilting her head to the side. The men below watched Sansa's furs billow out behind her, caught in the wind along with her vibrant red hair like wings. She was taller than the men and frightening to behold. Even the witch paused to watch. “Miranda was fiercer than you'll ever be. I threw her from the wall and she cracked, like an egg. All her bile soaking into the stone... It was beautiful.”

While Ramsay was distracted by the image, Sansa dragged her sword across his throat, slashing deep into the skin. His neck opened and a curtain of blood rained down over his armour, turning the flayed man sigil red. He struggled, dropping his dagger and sword, one each side of the wall. Sansa pressed her lips against his ear, whispering the last words he'd ever hear before she pushed him into the crowd of soldiers below.

Ramsay's body landed on a Stark banner. The sharpened end went through his thigh leaving him a mangled, twitching corpse in the snow.

At the harrowing sight, the Stark army knelt – rank after rank _after rank_.

###  **THE HOUSE OF BLACK AND WHITE**

###  **BRAAVOS – ESSOS**

A man knew the rules. A girl did not. Why then, a man asked himself, was it the constant yapping of a wolf pup that loosened his hold on those rules? Twice a man had called himself Jaqen H'ghar and a girl had smiled. She understood what the others ignored – that there was no such thing as _no one_. Everything else was a lie.

“Where are you from?” Arya asked, cross-legged by the pool of water. There was a body slumped between her and Jaqen, recently expired. She could feel the warmth lift from the body, fed on by the temple stone. It was as if the house itself was carnivorous, hungry for faces. Centuries of blood had not sated the god within.

“Nowhere,” a man replied calmly, dipping his hands into the water to retrieve the cup. He set it down on the lip of the pool then reached around the body, sliding it onto the floor. A girl watched indifferently. Death was nothing to the wolf.

“If you are here, you are from somewhere,” she insisted, reaching for the cup. She toyed with the idea of dipping it into the sacred water if only to see what he'd do.

“Is a girl from somewhere?” he countered.

“Nowhere at all,” she replied dutifully.

Arya's eyes said, _Winterfell_. _I am from the North._ A man could hear her words as clear as if she'd screamed them to the moon. If a girl could not be no one, a girl would have to die. He should have done it already – brought her to the water, held her under its surface or taken her with a single, swift slice of his sword. A man could not do it. _Jaqen H'ghar_ could not do it and _Arya Stark knew._

“Come with me,” he said, inviting her to stand.

“What about him?” Arya nodded at the corpse.

“He'll not run away.” A man led Arya to the lagoon's edge but not to kill her. The House of Black and White loomed on the other side, its reflection stretching nearly halfway across. It was a cold thing, bleak and scornful of the sun. “A man knows where a girl is from,” he finally said, after they had sat in perfect silence for several hours.

Arya picked at the black stone that built the island beneath. There were hundreds of them, scattered through the water, linked by bridges. They looked like they had been coughed up by a dragon. She did not speak, fearing that she had failed some test of his.

“A girl has a list. She whispers it sometimes, when no one is around.” Then his tone changed – perhaps a flicker of the man reaching for air. “You cannot kill what you do not know.”

Arya's breath caught. Her dark eyes lifted while she shifted closer. These were the first real words he'd spoken since saying farewell.

“Northerners have always been caught up in the darkness. Winter has an allure. The everlasting cold. The calm and the silence. Not the Bears.” He admitted. “They've the blood of the First. It makes them rage against the night, keeping watch over the ice-locked lands. A girl has the eyes of a _wolf_ and no matter how many faces she wears, those eyes will remain. Most of us are driftwood, meandering toward the edge of the world. A girl is something else.”

“Don't send me away...” Arya whispered, with no defence to his claim.

“A man does not know what he will do with Arya Stark.”

 


	43. The Art of Fear

 

###  **FIVE FORTS – YI TI**

_Screams sank into the acrid walls, curling within Dragonstone's endless tunnels. The palace was a twisted mess of festered stone, formed in anger and tailored as a prison for the fires beneath. They raged below, coughing and twitching, shaking ravens from their perches, boiling water in vast sink holes scattered on the island. Breaches of salt from storm-whipped waves drove them to war, hissing and spitting at the sky._

_A trail of smoke faltered before an arch of stone, open to the sea it dipped – roving the black glass tiles, caressing what flame left bare. Waves threatened the moon. Watchmen paced the stony sliver above the tide. Red dragons danced from flag poles, battered by a Summer wind. They darkened at another cry, tearing apart the evening._

_A blonde-haired knight, all in gold, swayed against his post – leaning toward the mewling. A larger man took his arm, shaking his head as the knight tried to pull away._

“ _It is the queen...” Jaime Lannister insisted. Screaming. The shatter of a goblet against the wall. A table, crushed. Curtains torn and a body thrown against them. “We have a duty to protect her.”_

_Ser Jon Darry, a large man with an honourable face, stepped between the young Kingsguard and the door. “Indeed, it is so but not from him.” He was not unmoved, flinching at another howl._

_Jaime's eyes became the sea. From the water, a shredded curtain struggled out from the clutches of stone, flapping limply against the rock. Hours later, Queen Rhaella appeared on the sill, whispering prayers to the night. Her silver hair was stained with tears. Hands cupped the smallest curve where another child grew. Destined to die or born to rule? It would be kinder to throw it in the dark waters, let the Drowned God take the malformed thing under its waves to the city where dead things slept, undisturbed by men and their bloodied swords._

_The Mad King and his ship sailed toward the sinking moon, accompanied by a dozen lights bobbing beside. A knock at the door. The soft groan of wood. 'My Lady...' A Kingsguard slipped through the room. He held a goblet of sweet wine to her lips. Queen Rhaella turned her head, seeking the moon and the depths of the waves._

Daenerys held her throat, choking at the vile burn of wine that wasn't there. She was lying on filthy rugs, covered in hungry layers of scented smoke that pressed down on her face. Witches whispered. Wind jostled bone chandeliers. Her eyes rolled, unable to hold onto the world. Tears slid. Dreams washed over each other, crashing against her as if she were the shore and her bones the rock. They consumed the smoke, the flames and the filthy voices on the air.

_Cold eyes. Ice locked in flesh. They shifted between shadows. Gone. A city laid along a peaceful harbour. Dense forests at its back, a wall drawn at the water's edge and a keep, rearing up like the bow of a warship or a mad king's crown. It glistened, pink against the rising sun. Daenerys strolled barefoot along the wall toward the Red Keep. The stone trembled. Thunder shook the air. Green flared before the sun's curve vanished._

Bu Gai watched as the silver dragon reached toward nothing, hands quivering – fingers outstretched. Dreamers were rare, bartered through the kingdom for the wisdom they stole from the gods own crib. Many emperors had sent men in search of dragon dreamers, raiding the outposts of _Lys_ and _Volantis_. This pale girl dipped deeper into man's fate than any before her. Bu Gai threw another handful of herbs into the fire. Their smoke thickened in the room. The witches recited old words and then –

“ _Alass 'ul sia!”_ Daenerys pleaded desperately in her dream.

Those words were not hers. They were  _Yitish_ .  _I beg of you!_ Words from his lips on his last day in the palace.

_Blue eyes crept closer. Flesh, pulled away from the bone. Filth dripped on marble floors. Daenerys felt a wretched breath upon her face. Her back hit a window ledge. Behind, a drop into Yin's harbour where half the city spilled onto the boats only to be struck down and slaughtered on their decks. 'Alass 'ul sia!' she whispered again, holding her hands in front of her face. The creature struck, slashing a crude blade from one side of her stomach to the other. Daenerys fell, cupping her slaughtered form. She lay in a red pool. Screams again. Amongst them were her mother's cries. Smoke. Witches..._

Daenerys woke.

The tent was empty except for the two emperors, Bu Gai and Pol Qo who sat on small stools in front of her. They stared as she propped her aching body up. Sweat dried on her skin – a final tear rolled across her cheek. She coughed the poisoned air from her lungs, grasping for a bladder of water passed by Pol Qo. She drank, ignoring the shake in her hands. _I should not have seen that_ she thought. The gods would punish her for such a trespass.

“ _How did you survive?”_ Daenerys asked in Valyrian, nodding at Bu Gai. She could still feel the blade in her gut.

Bu Gai lifted his silk tunic, revealing the horrific scar that cut deep across his torso. _“I did not,”_ he replied. It festered at once edge blackening along the stitches. _“The witches did what they could but I will...”_

“ _You will become one of_ them _...”_ Daenerys finished for him. _“I have seen it.”_

The emperor found himself staring into the flames. His end was writ. The souls of his ancestors were coming for him, certain as the dawn. Pol Qo would absorb his people and rule, bringing an end to the Azure empire and its promise of peace. His heirs were dead.  _Yin_ was dead. Pol Qo could rule the sands, warden of the ashes.

“ _It does not end here,”_ Daenerys interrupted his thoughts. _“Not for either of you. There is a way back from the edge but be warned, you'll wade through blood. Neither of you will be emperor after the dawn but your people will survive. Your empire will survive. When the game is done you'll not be a fading light in the evening. The East will rise again. I've seen the harbour fill with ships, Yin brim with traders. Cities rise out of the forest and others, built from sand, conquer the dunes. It will be your names they scratch into stone. A legacy is the most anyone can hope for when the gods are done with their games.”_

This was translated to Pol Qo who whispered back to Bu Gai. _“He asks, what happens if we stay?”_

“ _Everybody dies. The dead are walking from one corner of the map to the next. If Yitish corpses don't find you, others will.”_ Her choice of words alarmed them. There was already talk amongst the masses of the coming night and the pale ghosts of children's nightmares. 'Others' they'd been called – frozen creatures from death's vault. Ghostgrass strangled the mountains, burning stars tainted the sky, plague ravaged the capital and dragons returned to the world. _“Tell no one what I saw here – certainly not my knight. Fate is a fickle creature – we must whisper or she'll blow away.”_

*~*~*

Jorah dipped his torch, kissing hers until fire erupted. They held them toward the black fort and the chasm where a door once stood. It had been eaten away by impossible volumes of time.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” said Jorah, standing beside his queen. The camp of _Yitish_ swayed behind them, transfixed by the foreigners approaching one of the forbidden towers. “Why are we doing this?”

“It was a request,” Daenerys replied, leading. It would be a lie to pretend that the building did not threaten her. Every brick clawed at their flames while grooves in the stone spoke of past doom. “Pol Qo has pledged himself to me if I will enter the fort. He thinks that if the gods let me live, then I am their tool. If I die – he will do as he pleases.”

“What's wrong with Bu Gai?” The other emperor appeared deeply concerned, tilting his head as the pair edged closer to the door.

“If we die, he has announced his intention to _uliis_ – kill himself with a ceremonial blade as a way of renouncing his rule and preserving the peace.”

“I leave you alone in a tent for a few hours and you've got emperors falling on their swords...” Jorah muttered, mostly in amusement but partly concern. Chaos had taken Daenerys as a lover. “If we are going to do this, we best hurry. Drogon is not fond of the horselords minding him. Pol Qo may not honour your deal if some of his best men end up on a roast.” Jorah stopped again they reached the doorway. It was a simple rectangle cut into the side of the building but it dwarfed their two figures.

“Worried?” Daenerys asked, slightly in front.

“I am not worried. Are you worried?”

Daenerys lofted her eyebrow, pressing forward into the darkness.

The innards of the black fort were as barren as its outer walls. Its fittings had rotted away leaving scraps of iron rusted on the floor, mostly turned to powder. The floor itself was enormous, sweeping out in all directions. “A mustering area for troops,” Jorah said, pacing around the expanse. “Horses were chained to the wall over there.” He could tell by the stone troughs. “And there, an armoury – or what's left of it.”

Daenerys moved towards the steps spiralling up through the centre toward the next level. “What do you think it was built for?”

“I saw more of them, stretching North. If they really were built by the empire it was probably for defence against another civilisation in the East. It may be a collection of cannibals and cursed men now but there used to be sprawling, wealthy cities all though the desert. No one really knows how old the Yi Ti empire is. These could have been here a lot longer than we imagine. Where are you going?”

“Upstairs.”

“Is that wise?”

“You said it yourself, there is nothing here. We're attempting to convince a superstitious ruler that I'm touched by the gods. If I run straight back out it's hardly much of an impression.” The will of men frightened Daenerys, not the shit they left behind.

Jorah may not have been afraid of the fort but there was certainly something about it that he did not like. _It didn't make sense_ for one. That was what dug at him the most. He had not shared his suspicions but the structures were touched by ice, built against a vanished wall that must have stretched at least as far as its Northern counterpart. Combined with the ice-weapons in the cave deep in the South, Jorah could only surmise that Winter had once gripped the land, swallowing most of the world – worse than the recent Long Night. This had all happened, many times before. The realms of men had a short memory but stone remembered.

“Jorah...”

He climbed the stairs, three at a time – drawing his ice sword, brandishing the torch in the other. “My queen?” he asked, pausing on the next level, searching the darkness for her. Her flame was nearby, dimly reflected off a nearby wall. “What is it?” Daenerys stepped back so that he could see the markings scratched into the stone. “Runes?” he breathed, shuffling closer. “But these are only found in the far North. There are some in the caves of Bear Island – others in the Winterfell crypt. Rangers claim to have found them beyond the Wall.”

“The First Men came from somewhere,” Daenerys turned away from the runes, taking half the light with her. “I have seen things that you cannot imagine in my dreams,” she whispered, her voice creeping through the empty room. “I've looked into the eyes of the dead and heard their stories.”

Jorah lingered by the scratchings on the wall. Everything he thought he knew was being torn apart. The flame started to tremble. At first he thought it was something in the air but then he released it was his hands. The poison in his blood raged, bubbling and thrashing in his veins. Alarmed, he backed away from the runes and the magic in their unreadable words.

“I walked along a wall of ice,” Daenerys continued, “and watched a watery sun rise in the East.” She stopped and turned to her knight. “I stood _here_.”

“Future or past?” Jorah breathed, moving closer. He tried to stop his hands from shaking but they would not. The darkness seemed to encroach, the flame weaken.

“Both...”

Dragon song spilled in through the fort windows. _Drogon_ was below, paws to the wall, standing on his back legs with his head up. His wings had unfurled, wrapping around the surface. The horselords minding him fled, racing back into the safety of the crowd. Awe rippled through the people. Dragons were magical creatures and here it was, singing to its mother.

Jorah's torch clattered to the stone. The room dimmed as it rolled away, tumbling toward one of the windows.

“Are you all right?” Daenerys asked, following as he gave chase.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he replied, retrieving it. “Of course.”

The markings on his skin darkened in the flame. Daenerys felt them, mimicked in her flesh. What she had done could never be undone. His fate belonged to Winter and hers to the flames.

*~*~*

Daenerys emerged as a god. Bu Gai and Pol Qo crossed the sand. Both knelt in front of her, bowing their heads. It was nothing like the overbearing love of the Meereenese, knotted around Daenerys in a sea of praise. These emperors bowed to Daenerys as though she were the harbinger of the Doom. As they stood, the emperors faced off, grabbed each other's forearms and embraced. Then, they split away and almost immediately the camp started to divide.

“What have you asked them to do?” Jorah watched a city of people spring to life.

“You'll have to trust me, Jorah the Andal...” The queen replied.

###  **BEAR ISLAND**

###  **271 AC**

Dacey Mormont took to the snow as a captain to the waves. It was deeper than when they had set out, topped up by passing flurries that caught on the jagged, narrow mountains of _Bear Island_. They had come around the Northern edge, outside the forest where they had a view of the frozen shore beyond the bay and further still, the unnamed ranges. Ships knocked together in the harbour, flying Blackwood banners. A few gulls picked at the fingers of black rock protruding from the water nearby. It was a deadly, unforgiving but infinitely beautiful vista.

Jorah paused at the sight, taking a moment to warm his face in the sudden sun breaking through the clouds. His peace was brutally ended by a face full of snow.

“Dacey!” he growled, wiping his face. Guilty amounts of snow clung to her gloves.

“You're a dreamer,” she accused. “Getting lost in things.”

He moved to exact revenge, bundling up a paw full of powdered snow, shaping it into an orb. She was already ducking as he tossed it, missing her by miles. He suffered through her laughter but was worth it for her smile. The halls were dull without them.

“Dacey...” Fear struck Jorah, binding his limbs.

“What?” she asked. “Afraid I'll hit you again, little king?” Her grin was wicked, another lump of snow in her hands.

“Dacey...” he whispered, begging her to do the same. “Behind you. It's -” Jorah didn't know what it was. Something was crawling out of the forest, nudging frozen pines apart, knocking avalanches of snow from their bowers – sending ravens into flight.

Dacey turned slowly, hearing the crack of wood on the air. Her eyes widened as a tree fell from the forest and smashed into the clearing. She ducked, scampering toward Jorah, taking his arm. “Move!” she hissed, dragging the prince across the snow. Whatever was about to break into the clearing, they were not prepared for it.

Their boots skidded over the path, nearly toppling them a dozen times. After the last shatter of wood, the world fell quiet behind them. For a few minutes they did nothing but run, scampering toward the forest where they could use the trees as cover. Silence was dreadful. Jorah could stand it no longer, risking a glance over his shoulder as they ran.

The creature's jaws were nearly on them. Jorah shoved Dacey to the ground, falling on top of her as the ice spider's pincers took a vicious swipe at their necks. The size of a bear, with eight jointed legs and bristles covering its body like poisoned daggers, the creature overshot, running straight over them. On the ground, Dacey and Jorah lifted their heads to see the ice spider skidding across the snow, surprised at its prey suddenly vanishing.

There was no time to scream or speak. They were on their feet, racing in the opposite direction away from the monstrous thing. There was nowhere to go. It was faster than they were and the next outcrop of forest lingered several hundred metres through open snow. Cliffs walled them in on the right with nothing but a sheer drop into the bay.

“It's coming back around!” Jorah, slower than Dacey, could hear the soft _crunch_ of snow beneath its tarsal claws. It stabbed the ice, finding purchase where they couldn't, tapping at the snow with a morbid _clicking_ that would haunt Jorah for decades. “Dacey!”

She saw it when he did – the narrowing edge of land between the pathway and the cliff. There, perched on the edge, twisted around the brutal shore was the _Weirwood_ with its flaming crown. If they could make it down the tangle of roots into the cave, there was a chance the spider couldn't follow.

They turned from the path as the spider's black fangs unsheathed. The fangs struck the snow, spilling venom harmlessly into the ice. Outside the path, the powder was up to their waste. They forced their way through it, swinging their arms violently to propel themselves. Jorah kept his eyes on the ghostly wood in front, willing himself to make it. He remembered climbing the tree in the Spring, when he and Dacey were much smaller. It had been dangerous and foolish but very small children are immune to fear. Now, as the waves of the bay ravaged the rocks below, Jorah was suddenly very aware of the drop only metres away, concealed by deadly planks of unsupported ice.

Dacey was first. Reaching the tree she used the roots to haul herself out of the powder. Even the wood was covered in ice, making their idea for escape impossibly perilous.

“Jorah – we can't!” She shouted, struggling to hold onto the tree as the wind kicked up.

Jorah was right behind her, crawling onto the base of the tree. The ice spider, blind like its smaller cousins, felt the ground, listening for the slightest disturbance in the snow. They were hunters, moving within the frozen forests of the unnamed lands. This one had slept too long. It was the size of a bear, engorged from a diet of bats and seagulls. Its webs lined an inaccessible network of caves left sealed for thousands of years. Now it was out, stretching its segmented legs. Its exoskeleton was tight, rubbing against a fresh layer of shell forming underneath.

The pair wrapped their arms around the slippery roots of the tree and leaned over, peering down at the sapphire water. The cold deepened its colour while the snow contrasted the burned rocks beneath. _Weirwood_ roots dangled off the cliff. Most were like hair but some were as thick as Jorah's leg. They needed the ones in between – roots that they could twist them around their arms.

The ice spider could feel them moving, or hear their voices on the air. Whatever it was, the creature was drawn towards them – slower this time with its upper body lifted. Its fangs were black, curved and dripping onto the snow as it scuttled forward. He could hear the bristles on its legs rubbing together, rustling.

The _Weirwood_ shed scarlet leaves over them as they took hold of what they could and started over the edge of the cliff. Jorah went first. His stomach dropped as the roots took his weight. The rock at his feet crumbled away, vanishing in the water below. There was nothing but the tree, its bleeding face caught in a scream and the distant crash of waves.

“Hurry up!” Dacey hissed at him, swinging one of her legs over the edge. She was coming over fast, grasping handfuls of roots, backing away from the approaching ice spider whose front legs had found the tree. Venom dripped onto the bark, smoking on the wood.

Jorah felt a foot on his shoulder – a brush of roots across his neck. From his left, a white leg curled around the trunk of the _Weirwood._ Red eyes, two layers of them, blinked back at Jorah. They were set on him, alive with hunger. The leg, with its tapered claw, reached toward his throat. Jorah wrested with the _Weirwood_ roots, shuffling down the veil toward the cave beneath. He could feel his grip on them simultaneously too tight and slipping. Above, Dacey screamed as another leg dragged over her back, leaving a layer of white hairs stuck in her furs like needles. The spider followed them over the edge, clinging onto the tree with its back legs while the rest of its body canted forward.

The roots pulled away from the snow. Dacey fell a few feet, coming level with Jorah. She knocked against him, almost pushing him loose. A shower of snow hit them in the face and then the spider lurched forwards, striking. The fangs clashed against the rock between them. Jorah grasped wildly at the cliff face with his free hand, tearing some of it free. He threw it in the spider's face. It flinched – briefly, then struck again. They both let themselves slide uncontrollably down the roots, snapping many of them as they gripped and stopped. Now they hung above the entrance to the cave but it was set in from the cliff. If they let go they'd fall straight onto the rocks.

“Dacey – take my hand!” Dacey was stuck, her arm caught in a curved root. She hung above him, wrestling with the tree. “Look out!” Angered, the spider had come nearly all the way over the edge. Only its back legs, clung to the top of the cliff while the rest of it reached for Dacey, catching its front-most legs in her sweeping fur coat. Something caught and the spider started to drag her back up. Jorah grabbed her leg, pulling her down.

Panic mixed with adrenalin. Dacey fought against the creature, punching its leg with her bare hand. The hairs cut her hands as if they were glass. All she could see was the ice spider's blood-shot eyes and its fangs twitching, waiting to strike. Lost in those eyes, her own rolled back, giving way to two white orbs.

The ice spider froze. Startled – it swayed dangerously, scratching for a hold on the ice. Then it fell, tumbling off the cliff, barely missing them, before vanishing into the water below. Without the spider, Dacey fell as well, knocked free from the roots. Jorah screamed, still holding onto her ankle. Her weight in his hand pulled him down, ripping through the roots until they stopped, swinging wildly, Jorah with one hand on the _Weirwood_ and Dacey dangling upside down by the leg.

She came too, murmuring something.

“Fucking _gods of the Seven_!” Dacey shrieked, struggling dumbly as she found her face staring down at the rocks.

“Stop moving!” Jorah replied in alarm, as the roots unwound.

Beneath them, the spider emerged from the waves. It crawled out onto the rocks, running its legs between the two smaller ones at the front, drying them off. Then it _walked over the surface of the water_ , fleeing across the bay back toward the _Lands of Always Winter_.

“I'm going to swing you into the cave.”

“You're going to _what?_ ” Dacey shouted, as she felt her body start to move. “No – Jorah! _Jorah!_ ”

Dacey swung far away from the cliff. A rush of wind hit her face. _Weirwood_ leaves tumbled in the air around her. Another wave lurched up the wall of rock beneath. The cave lay ahead, gaping out of the wall. It came closer, rushing toward her. Dacey closed her eyes as Jorah let go. _This is it. This is how I die_.

Her body smashed onto the rocks inside the cave, rolling through gull carcasses. She landed on her back near the edge, staring at the perfect sky through the mouth of the cave. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, spoiled immediately by Jorah barrelling in after her. His shadow flailed in free-fall before landing in a mess.

They lay there for a time, quite unable to move. Finally it was Dacey that shoved him off and began picking spider hairs out of her furs. “I draw the line at whatever that was...” Dacey growled.

Jorah could still see the silver body of the spider racing into the distance. It barely touched the water, dancing on the surface. “How did you do it?” He asked, tearing his eyes away to look on her. “I saw what you did.”

Dacey paused, one of the razor hairs between her fingers. It was a foot long and tapered like a ghostly quill. “Do what?”

“You know.”

“I _don't_ know,” she replied honestly. “It happens sometimes. Mostly I think I'm dreaming.”

“It wasn't a dream,” Jorah assured her. “I heard the fisher-woman call it 'warging'. A rare talent...”

“Whatever it is, I'm not interested,” she assured him. “It's horrible – being inside another mind, it's thoughts suffocating your own. I wanted to kill myself, sink fangs into the flesh and feast on our corpses. It's a curse, not a gift.”

“Well, your curse saved us,” Jorah shuffled closer, leaning back against the cave wall. She joined him, laying on his chest for a moment, needing something warm to hold onto.

“Don't say a fucking thing,” Dacey grunted.

“Not a word,” Jorah promised, allowing her to rest.

When they returned many hours late and filthy, his father put them both against a wall and shouted. He never struck them as it was not the Mormont way but he did make it abundantly clear that they'd be helping the villagers chop firewood for the rest of their natural lives. Neither of them told the old bear what they saw. It wasn't only that no one would believe them – this was their secret. They knew something about the world that others didn't. Later that night, when they were the last ones in the Great Hall, sat in front of the fire, Jorah finally told someone what he'd seen on the frozen shores.

###  **FIVE FORTS – YI TI**

Daenerys had been watching her knight for a while. He was ferrying gifts from the emperors up onto the dragon, tethering them into the new saddle for their journey North. Even now, with one foot on the holds near _Drogon's_ stomach and his body stretched over the gentle curve, reaching into a satchel, she could see him shake.

_A foaming wall of ravaged flesh. Barely human, they breached the Jade Gates and flung themselves on the screaming people of Yin. Ships cracked apart, smashed and ruined in the bay. Blood ran down the streets, painting flocks of gulls red._

“Stormborn?”

Daenerys turned to find Pol Qo readied for travel. His cone-shaped head was wrapped in silk, held together with jewelled pins. He bowed to her and then spoke perfect Valyrian despite his pretence.

“ _I will ride West, through the Bone Mountains and sack the smaller cities. As our number swells we'll cross the Red Waste at Lhazar.”_

“ _Avoid the cursed cities of Meereen and Yunkai,”_ Daenerys added. _“Slip by them as shadows into the Painted Mountains then take the Vaylrian roads into the Lands of the Long Summer and sack the demon city of Mantarys. Take their gold and their ships. Bu Gai has gifted you sailors. Use them to bring your hoard across the Sunset Sea. I will meet you at the spear on the broken arm, you understand?”_

“ _You are crazy but if the gods have seen it, then it will be so.”_

“ _The curse that has besieged your lands will be lifted, with fire and blood.”_ Daenerys looked upon the enormous gathering of people in the desert. _“You have warred each other from the dawn age, now you are brothers and sisters again. Take out your grief on those that you find along the way.”_

“ _Bu Gai?”_

“ _You'll see him before the end. He must go another way.”_

*~*~*

Bu Gai frowned at the slender man following close beside. His donkey pulled a cart full of ravens. They sat on their perches, silently swaying with the rock of the cart. The dragon queen had asked that he take care of the traveller – a survivor of Pol Qo's camp. He did not see the purpose in the man.

“A man thanks you for your kindness.” The traveller from _Lorath_ nodded respectfully when he noticed the emperor's eyes upon him.

Unable to understand, Bu Gai grunted and kicked his stallion. The horse picked up its pace, driving him toward the front of the caravan as they wandered forth into the Northern lands.

*~*~*

_Drogon_ lifted off the sand, taking flight with Daenerys and Jorah strapped safely into the saddle. They were surrounded by cloth, wrapped up against the cold. It was night and the shadow of the fort quickly faded into blackness with the rest of the desert.

“Are you revisiting your dreams?” Jorah asked, when he caught Daenerys staring at the darkness. She'd said nothing for many hours, preferring to watch the moon slip away and the faintest blush of dawn grow on the horizon. _Drogon_ was heading North, following the ridge of mountains.

“I saw my mother,” Daenerys replied. “She was – _lost_. Did you know, Ser, what my father did to her?” Jorah was quiet. “Answer me.”

He was forced to nod. “The king was not in his right mind, Your Grace.”

“He beat her. Raped her. I listened to her screams.” She turned to face the knight behind, her eyes glistening in the moonlight. “She wanted to drown me in the sea before I was born.”

“Daenerys...” he reached up but she would not let him touch her.

“In the end I killed her. Rhaella died screaming. She was right to want me dead.”

“It was not always so... The pressures of war and the collapse of the kingdom drove despair across your family. Things will be different when you sail into the Blackwater.”

_She'd felt the coarse stone of those walls against her skin. Heard the rush of water on the grates that protected the city from attack. Even now she could see the sky and her three dragons tumbling in the wind._

“I'll not sail,” she corrected, looking back over the night. “I'll _fly_.”

 


	44. Stone and Steel

 

###  **THE SUNSET SEA**

Daenerys awoke to an ocean mist thickening around her dragon's wings. The milky light of morning made a layer of dew shimmeracross his scales like watery stars, fading as _Drogon_ turned into the wind. Droplets raced along his spines, breaking free at their sharp tips and took flight into the unknown waters below. Some struck her face until she lay against the warm body seated behind. Her knight's arms wrapped around her waist in sleep as if afraid she might slip away during the night, stolen by the moon. Jorah rested peacefully on the leather coverings of the saddle while the furs gifted by the _Jogos Nhai_ were as black as their dragon. Daenerys reached up to his face, gently laying the back of her hand on his cheek where the pale ghost of a scar ran along his bone, earned in the fighting pits of _Meereen_ in search of her forgiveness _._ He looked young, dreaming of home. She envied his repose. When she closed her eyes the gods sent nothing but warnings of the future – cursed truths of the past and every painful lesson in between. A dragon's dreams were soaked in blood then set alight.

“Your Grace?” his voice croaked, awakened by her touch.

Her hand fell away. “We're over the water,” she answered.

Jorah opened his eyes, momentarily embarrassed to find his arms around the queen. He went to untangle himself but she stopped him. Even now, grazing the clouds, she was warm. “I did not mean to sleep so long.” Rising up on either side were the curved peaks of fog, lifting as the air gradually warmed. Where it tore apart he caught glimpses of a deep grey sea, calm as glass. Fragments of ice bobbed on the surface, drifting South. “This doesn't look like the Shivering Sea...”

“How can you tell?”

“If we looked upon that writhing mess, you would know. It is a violent body of water, constantly whipped up by the Northern winds, mostly frozen and capped with white peaks where the waves crash together leaving a salty foam. This is calm – lulling against the edge of the world. Almost looks like...” Jorah frowned, leaning closer until the saddle groaned. “It could not be the Sunset Sea,” he whispered. The more he looked, the more obvious it became. He'd felt these fogs wrap around his home, cover the island in a white blanket for days. He'd been here only moments before, dreaming of its golden waves and the tiny outcrop of land at the edge, propelled from the depths. “Drogon's flown East – so far East he's found the Western shore.”

As if hearing his words, _Drogon_ dipped a wing, curving elegantly into the layers of fog. The world became white. The sky above vanished. They covered their faces as a shower of water condensed on their skin until _Drogon_ broke free, soaring under the fog. The sea beneath was starting to turn with the sun. Flickers of gold caught its edges and a single, distant ship cast a long shadow. An endless rise of chalk cliffs greeted the water on the Eastern shore, pink against the waves.

“I don't understand,” Daenerys said, entranced by the softness of the world. “Where are we going?”

“Home...” Jorah looked warily toward the North, past the curve of the stony land and beyond.

*~*~*

Theon paced the deck of the fishing vessel. Old but loved, it creaked against water, trawling nets through the depths where brightly coloured fish schooled from its grasp. He'd been watching an iceberg meander by, glistening like a spectre in the morning light. As they drew closer, Theon awed at its immensity. It was the size of a castle, bobbing silently in the water. Dozens of lazy gulls perched on the top flank, heads tucked back into their feathers while a brown-nosed seal rolled over, wondering it was worth the effort to catch one Sometimes the ice drifts made it as far as _Pyke_ but by then the warm currents had broken them apart into tiny fragments that washed up on the shore, tossed about by _Ironborn_ children.

His gaze wandered up to an enormous ocean eagle, slipping through the fog. It was a long way off, playing in the wind but... Theon tilted his head. The bird appeared to have a tail, as long as its body, dragging in the wind behind. It was an odd sort of a thing, mostly black but with red wings when it banked into the sun, heading further North.

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

  
  


The wolf licked tentatively at the sour flesh, rasping layers of blood away before sinking its fangs into the corpse's lip, tearing it. Ramsay's body had been left to rot, twitching with a banner pole erupted through his thigh. Bathed in blood, the mud around him froze as the sun vanished. Ice settled, painting the battlefield white. Soldiers of the Vale wandered from pyre to pyre, pouring fresh oil on the bodies that refused to burn. Those that did lit up the night and brought all manner of creature out of the forest to bask in the warmth. Wolves howled, pacing at the edges of the Godwood. Crows tugged scraps of meat from the fire. Wanderers, displaced by the wars of the North fleeced the dead men of their worldly goods.

_'Burn them all...'_ Jon Stark had said, staring haunted at the piles of dead men. He remained on the highest wall of  _Winterfell_ with Davros at his side while the Red Woman walked between flames, purring at them as if they were her children.

Sansa stood alone in the royal tent. Her clothes displayed a river of Ramsay's blood, fanning out from her waist into a delta that soaked all the way to the hem. She clutched the knife, turning it over and over with equally red hands. _He is dead._ A whisper from her lips as the blade flipped. _He is dead._ Over again. Her reflection caught on the surface. Sansa was caught by her own eyes. They were cold – set in the steel. The eyes of her mother.

A tear touched the blade, sliding along its edge until it formed a scarlet droplet at the tip. Another shattered on the surface. Her body trembled but she kept hold of the knife. She thought of Ramsay's throat – how easily the flesh peeled away and all the madness of his soul spilled over the stones of _Winterfell_. All the politics in the world could not solve what violence had taken. There was a brutal truth to war. The last frontier of hope.

“Do not cry...” The voice slipped into the tent before the man.

Petyr Baelish was alone, unarmed and unusually cautious in his approach. He folded the tent closed then turned, taking in the silhouette of the North's new queen. It was official, as the rebel houses bent the knee to her in the mud with banners flapping against the collapsed buildings. Jon Snow may style himself 'King' but he was a warrior not a commander – leader of the armies but not of men's hearts. The true ruler stood before him, steeped in blood.

“I am sorry about your brother. He has been laid to rest in an undamaged part of the crypt.”

Sansa kept hold of the dagger and left her tears where they were, growing cold against her cheek. “I do not cry for Rickon,” she replied, voice steady. “He is free. As am I.”

“Tears of happiness,” he realised. Ah yes, he could see the strength in her. The immensity of it shook her bones. She bid him come closer and he obeyed, willingly led. As Petyr approached, Sansa reached forward, trailing her hand from his neck – lingering on the mockingbird pin before roaming down the line of silver buttons on his cloak. Dropping his guard, Petyr's gaze followed the progress of her pale fingers and entirely missed the blade coming for his neck. Sansa gripped his cloak, dragging him sharply towards her as her bloody knife pressed against his skin. He lifted his hands – startled. “Sansa...?”

“Did you believe me ignorant of your true nature?” He voice caressed the air, sliding under the perfumed lamp oil.

Petyr felt the warmth of her skin and smelled the faint trace of winter roses, clinging to her hair. If it weren't for the sharp edge of her blade, he'd take her in his arms. He did not dare insult her with a denial. “How long have you known?” he asked instead, offering no resistance.

“A little bird whispered it to Lysa. My aunt delighted in sharing the depths of your depravity with me.”

_Varys..._ Petyr realised. Even vanished off the edge of the world he rammed swords through Petyr's chest, firing arrows blindly into the field. The eunuch had the most exceptional talent for destruction. “The moment your father accepted Robert's offer he was a dead man. King's Landing is a viper pit and he charged in, seeking justice against very powerful people. As Your Grace knows, blind honour leads to death.” The blade pressed a fraction harder. “Eddard Stark was nothing like you.”

“That may be so, Lord Baelish but that did not give you the right to push him toward the fall. Was that a demand of your ambition or jealousy?”

He stepped closer in defiance of her rage. “Both, I imagine.” One of Petyr's hands lowered, brushing down through Sansa's hair and onto her arm. She held steady – eyes full of hate and  _something else_ . Petyr laid a dangerous wager on what that  _something_ might be. Why else was he alive? Sansa could have killed him many times since the Vale but she kept him, for what, he wondered...

“You have my army,” Petyr promised. “I ordered them to follow your command should anything unforeseen happen to me...” He let that settle with her. “Take your revenge. Seize the Vale – murdering that weak boy would be a moment's work. You'll be Queen of the North amassing land in the South. With your mother's name you could take swathes of territory from far worse men than me.” He'd drifted closer, his other hand skimming along the arm that held the blade – moving up to trace the delicate edge of her cheek where a tear had left a scar of blood. She was fierce and Petyr had no wish to see her tamed. _Let her kill me_ , he thought, _if that be her will – but first..._ “If it is power you want, Sansa,” his voice was almost a purr, “then take it...”

“What do _you_ want...?” she turned the question on him. He was impossibly close, his touch burning against her face. Sansa felt herself lean slightly towards his gloved hand and the tenderness there. She recognised his contradiction – the impasse in his soul. It was mirrored in hers.

“I thought you knew what I wanted.” He leaned closer, ignoring the knife. Petyr allowed her to decide, lingering close enough to touch, eyes heavy with something deeper than lust.

“Neither of us can have what we want,” Sansa cautioned, barely a breath on his lips before she closed the distance. Her desire to murder blurred with the taste of his lips. He was the first man to kiss her, a lifetime ago in the snow. His kiss was fearful, trembling at her touch. A smart man would have left her to die in the midst of battle and take the North for himself but he didn't. He came for her, claimed victory and then relinquished it to her whim. Bolder, she felt his lips part, nervous – immeasurably more afraid of her kiss than her blade. Sansa's free hand slid into his hair, dragging him closer as they met in the murky waters of their desire.

Petyr pulled away sharply, blood running down his neck where her blade broke the skin. It was Sansa's hand that snaked over his naked flesh, pressing into the wound to staunch the flow. Then, she leaned to steal his lips again, wrapping her arm around his shoulder in either surrender or victory. Neither of them knew any more.

“You cannot marry me,” she nudged his cheek with her nose. “I lose the North and you lose the Vale. You have brought the soldiers here but not their masters – those men lurk in the mountains with their boy lord.” Her eyes found his. “By your own reasoning, I must marry Robin Arryn. A puppet too young to rule either.”

“Until he grows...” He barely found the breath to reply.

“If he grows.” Sansa guided Petyr's hand to rest at his neck while she moved away to a table, taking a length of bandage. She returned but he kept her at arm's reach, wary of both the wolf and of his own emotions.

“I'd rather die here than watch you marry another. You are not an object to be bartered between lords any more. Sansa, you are a _Stark_ , rightful heir. Marry _no one_.”

“Without the Vale's army-”

“Leave the Vale to me. You are wrong,” he added, lowering the barrier he'd placed between them. “I don't want to marry you – I want to _serve_ you, my queen.” Petyr sank slowly to his knees, lifting his head to look upon her. She was a queen, perhaps the first person he'd ever thought to honour. “And to _love_ you.”

Sansa shook her head at his declaration. The waver in his voice and the depth of gaze told her his affection would not die away. “Impossible...”

“Why?”

“Reasons too numerous to count.”

Petyr was not deterred. “Everything can be tallied,” he replied, returning to his feet. He collected the knife, offering it to her. “Even the stars – if one has the patience.”

###  **KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS**

  
  


The tiny slip of parchment tumbled from her hand until it scratched against the cold stone, rolling around in the drafts. Her raven hopped across the sill, ruffling its feathers while the city slept behind. Cersei Lannister trampled the message beneath her bare feet as she joined the raven, stroking the creature with a hand that could just as easily crush the life from its pitiful neck.

Although her power had been dismantled, the view remained the same. There were still trade vessels moored along the walls, bonfires in _Fleabottom_ and the hourly chime of the clock tower. It was due any minute, signalling another wasted day. Imprisoned, alone and cornered, she'd like nothing better than to rip that bell down and shove it deep into the High Sparrow's throat. Let him choke on time. Gag at her violence. Lack of opportunity was the only thing keeping the Sparrow afloat.

Cersei felt a flicker of pride for that bitch-wolf in the North. The days of Starks kneeling to Lannisters were long gone, killed the moment Eddard's head rolled into the street but she'd watched Sansa navigate the treacherous waters of power for a time. Schooled her, even. Curious, that Littlefinger's little bird found a window of the Red Keep and not the King's.

_'By the Old Gods and the Red God...'_

She had never seen him show the faintest interest in the gods. It was a warning, she reasoned, to the Crown and The Faith. _Stay away from the North_ it may as well have read. Were murmurings of dissent enough to tempt The Sparrow into war? The loss of their taxes might be. Cersei could not stand the thought of Littlefinger's smug face. He knew very well that the Crown could not touch his rebellion and he was goading her into fostering another, for that is what it was. He had _two_ of the Seven Kingdoms at his will before anyone realised he was there. As for Sansa Stark – sister in law, how vile that sounded, Cersei wondered if there was any warmth left in that stone heart of hers.

Cersei lifted her gaze to the chiming of the bells.

Another day.

###  **PORT MORAQ**

###  **GREAT MORAQ – THE JADE SEA**

  
  


Quaithe wedged her body between the boulders, casually thrown across the shore.  _ Great Moraq  _ was a mess of jungle behind. Its flowing water trees held bowers of waxy, purple flowers that shed over the rock. Monkeys chattered in their bowers, creeping up on Wreab's sailors to thieve buttons and scraps of food. Wreab, barely taller than one of the ochre creatures, leaned in and hissed, scaring a group of them into the forest.

Around the corner of the bay lurked  _ Port Moraq _ . It stretched back into the jungle with shaded stone buildings, walled gardens dripping with fruit and wild animals prowling the streets. The forest protected the settlement from the raging winds funnelled through the  _ Cinnamon Straits _ . They hit Wreab's ship, tossing it about in the water despite its sails hanging harmlessly beside the mast.

“You really  _ are  _ a pirate,” Quaithe pointed out, observing Wreab's clothes sodden with mud and bits of jungle. His men had been gone for many hours, retrieving cargo left buried onshore.

“Safer than a bank,” he replied. “Those cunts in Braavos are all freed thieves.”

Her gold-plated mask rattled as she covered a laugh. Wreab had ferried her over many seas. Perhaps he thought her a lucky a charm, of sorts. “Wise words from a wise man. Merchants are king of thieves.” He struggled up the rough rocks toward her, slipping on the mud he'd brought with him. “Are we walking to the capital?”

“It is usually best,” he replied, perching awkwardly. “Port Moraq is not somewhere I'd choose to leave my ship. Spirits might whisk it away in the night.”

“When do we leave?”

“Now,” he nodded at the men readying a litter. Quaithe nodded and went to rise when a chubby hand thrust in front of her path. “I need you to stay here. Guard the boat. The men fear you – that is useful to me.”

Quaithe could barely refuse. Her presence was at his leisure. “May the gods go with you.”

His flame-coloured hair had been tossed about by the wind, forming it into a crude fire. “I'll bring you back something nice,” he winked, slipping off the rock.

Quaithe had no doubt that he would. Strange little man, she found herself thinking. He was a scoundrel, a liar – thief and murderer yet he had a strict code of honour that kept him afloat. She watched him seep into the forest with his men before she returned to the ship.

The wind was rough, kicking against them even from their protected position behind the natural curve of the shore. Quaithe wondered which gods angered it. Which gods watched over them... Her visions showed her nothing of gods or their fragile wills. For so long she'd seen two faces in her dreams, each turning away from her – wandering to the farthest reaches of the world. One wrapped himself in gold, razed his own blood to the ground. The other drifted in the winter winds and sank into the dreams of ghostly forests.

Aeogor and Bryden, two men to love – two to send away. One had eyes of steel, the other – stone. Her love was poison to them both. She dreamt of laying under the water, a star beneath the waves. Her skin turning pale – all her masks washed away. Every time she stepped aboard a ship she wondered _will this be the time? Am I to return to the waves?_ _Not today... Not today._

Quaithe's eyes lifted to a line of white sneaking up on the horizon. A moment later, the sailor in the crow's nest whistled.

_ Ships. _

A fleet was sailing toward  _ Port Moraq _ and there, above their masts, a dragon tumbling in the wind.

###  **THE SUNSET SEA**

“Drogon, what are you doing, daft dragon?” Daenerys lay forwards against the great beast as he beat his wings, lowering toward the _Bay of Ice_. The land to their right was covered in snow drifts, reflecting the rising sun. The rest was covered in dense pine forests, almost black beneath. Mountains loomed further North and beyond those, a line of white where another continent drifted silently.

“Come back,” Jorah waved her over. She had crawled out of the saddle to lay against _Drogon's_ neck. Now, the dragon seemed to be preparing to land. Daenerys returned, sliding her legs into the straps. “You'll be able to see it in a minute.”

“See what?” she asked, folding away the furs.

“The Wall,” Jorah replied solemnly. It been many years since he'd locked eyes on the spread of ice dividing the lands.

Sure enough, the sun caught the polished edge of _The Wall_. It cut the land with a line of light, carving up the snow. Its front was blue, deep as the ocean and either side the snow spread out.

“I've never seen it like this,” Jorah added. “The ice drifts have breached the forest. This is Winter.”

“What are those?”

Daenerys pointed to a speck of black against the wall, pressed into the side with smoke rising out of the tower. “One of the Northern castles that guard the wall.” It was difficult to tell from this height will all the landmarks covered by snow. They were far to the West. “This must be The Shadow Tower, one of nineteen castles along the wall – only three are manned and that is one of them. My father wished to use men from there to re-fashion Stonedoor against the Wildlings. Ah there...” he added, as they approached. “That monstrosity on the very edge of The Wall is the ruins of Westwatch by the Bridge. I have been there as a child and walked clear around The Wall into The Lands of Always Winter.”

“I thought the great Northern wall was impervious – an impasse between the realms of the living and the dead? I remember the stories from my childhood. Ser Darry used to speak reverently of The Wall and the men that guard it. The bravest men,” he called them, “men that earn their honour on the edge of a blade. What?”

Jorah had stared at her a fraction too long. He'd heard those words before. “The Wall is not impossible to breach,” he assured her. “Wildlings have been doing it for thousands of years, pillaging the Northern Lords – taking their women, burning their fields and killing indiscriminately. They slide through passages in the ice, climb the ice cliffs and take boats across the bay.”

“Is that what happened to your family?”

“Aye. The Wildlings come in many tribes. I'll never know which took canoes from the Southern shore over there,” he pointed to the flat edge of nameless land, “crossed the Bay of Ice and landed on our island. They have no laws but their own and a King of Bones, worshipping the serpents of death. My father died beyond that wall, in the wilderness searching for answers about the great war that is to come. A war between the living and the dead.”

Daenerys had walked these lands – crossed through the Black Gate and into the ice-locked lands beyond. She'd stand there again but not yet. It was too soon. “Will we find shelter with your kin? If that is where Drogon is taking us.”

He could see _Bear Island_ , standing alone in the dark water with ice edging in. The hot springs below continuously melted the snow, leaving a permanent steam lifting off its cliffs. It was _alive_. “Every man in the North is honour bound to take my head,” Jorah replied, “including my niece. If she's anything like her sister, she'll have me on the block before the sun sets.”

“Your own blood would kill you after so much time has passed?”

“Honour is everything in the North, Your Grace. Here, I have none.”

That's what was bothering him, Daenerys realised. Jorah loved his home but in these icy waters, he was unwelcome. Returning home had been a fantasy and bringing a foreign queen was not likely to aid his cause. “Then I gather we'll not be making an appearance in this Lady's court?”

“That would be unwise,” he nodded. “Let us hope that Drogon intends only to rest here. If we're careful – land on the Western side of the island, we make pass through without a soul noticing that we were ever here. The time will come to forge alliances with these houses but not until the throne is yours.”

“It's beautiful,” she added, as _Bear Island_ approached. Its buildings were built straight from the rock as if part of the monstrous forms. The woods and snow crept over them, treating them the same. There was a certain elegance about its defiance. It stood against winter, against the sea and against the rest of Westeros, out on its own – a lonely bear.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I am rather fond of it.”

“How am I ever to rule such a place?” she whispered, as the winter winds bit at her face. “This may as well be the sands beyond the desert – the barren carcass of Asshai. What need do they have of a queen in the South, ruling from a throne of burned swords? I have less chance of protecting the Northern realm from what lies beyond that wall than I had of saving Meereen. The edges of the world must rule themselves.”

“Once there was a King in the North and his name was Stark,” Jorah remembered his old words. “If a Stark still breathes, the North will rise to follow them. You cannot rule in opposition to their ways, they are older than your civilisation and they endure, through the longest of nights.”

“Are you speaking as a Northerner or as my council?” Daenerys asked carefully. He rarely spoke of his loyalties. Ruling Westeros was one thing, threatening his homelands was something quite different. “I see you,” she added, tilting her head to find her knight staring at the frozen world beneath. “I know what you want.”

“I doubt it,” he breathed, mist lifting from his words.

Daenerys brushed her thumb over his lips.

 


	45. Bones of the North

 

###  **BEAR ISLAND – BAY OF ICE**

It was a vision from a Northern man's nightmares; a dragon clinging to a ruined sea stack, kicking bits of rock into the water with a series of loud _cracks._ As the structure began to collapse, _Drogon_ struggled, scuttling for a place to dig his claws in, sniffing and biting at the unfamiliar surface. In honestly, the outcrop was too small to support his swollen body which had grown so fast he was shedding scales.

Jorah smirked from the protection of the cave. “He looks quite ridiculous.”

“I'm not sure he understands how much he's grown since chasing gulls along Slaver's Bay. His days of playing in the cliffs have passed.” The light snowfall wasn't helping. He snapped at the flakes while snarling toward the ocean spray. “My brother used to talk often about the dragons that crossed the Narrow Sea and conquered Westeros – of Balerion melting Harrenhal into a grisly ruin and the screams rising off the desert toward Dorne. He relished violence. He was terrified of it.” A man like that could never rule. Violence and power swarmed together like fire and blood. “Three dragons to conquer all of this.”

“You have three dragons, Khaleesi.”

“Drogon is no Balerion.” She pointed out, watching wistfully as her child played. “Bantāzma was the largest dragon to live – captured from the far edges of the world and bred with Valyria's native dragons to make them fiercer.”

“I have not heard that story,” Jorah admitted. “Why was he named after the Long Night?”

“She...” Daenerys corrected. “Bantāzma was beautiful, they said – her black scales tipped in silver. At night, she'd circle the moon like one of the stars. Balerion was a child compared to her. My brother had a locket, gifted from Ser Darry. It came from Valyria and had a figure of Bantāzma etched into the surface and a sapphire set for her eye. I used to steal it and whisper prayers to her when I was very small. He'd beat me for it after and Ser Darry would send us both to bed.” She shook her head at how foolish that sounded now. “Lost to the sand... Another relic.”

_Drogon's_ saddle remained strapped on, irritating him. Every now and then he lifted his back leg, trying to kick it off.

“He'll settle,” Jorah assured her. “See – he's already spied the better perch.” _Drogon_ launched off the rock, leaving a hail of stone and shell. He soared up to a much larger stack. Waves and storms ate away the bridge of rock that had once joined it to the mainland leaving a patch of forest marooned on its top. _Drogon_ vanished into the trees, releasing a panicked flock of ravens. “We are heading towards Braavos,” Jorah assured the queen. “As the dragon flies, we are no more than a day from the Iron Bank. If only I could sneak a raven, I might be able to send word to your fleet to prepare.”

“A day's notice will not turn the tide. Either Varys and Tyrion are ready or they are not. If they are drowned, floating corpses in the sea, then I'll have to find myself another army.”

“Pray to the gods that they live or I'll be an old man before you take your place on the Iron Throne.”

Daenerys smiled at his teasing, then returned to fire he had made for them in the cavern. It was an ocean cave that ran deep into the island's foundations. Like all the rock on _Bear Island,_ it was inherently warm, feeding of fire writhing near the surface. The whole island was an accidental kiss of fire and water. The cave's ceiling was broken up by pale roots, infecting every wall. _Weirwood_ roots. Daenerys ran her fingers through a thicket, letting their soft curls brush over her skin. Their magic made her soul crawl. Her knight's eyes were upon her so she stepped away. His curiosity was dangerous.

_She keeps more secrets now_ he thought. All women had intrigues, queens more than most. It was the lingering, mournful gazes that he so often caught her in that made him worry.  _My dreams are real_ she declared to any who would listen. He had no doubt that they were. What was it that Daenerys saw, looming in their future, that gave her cause to conceal it? He'd follow her anywhere, serve her reign, wherever that may lead. She may not believe it but Jorah would march on the very shore of this island if it were at her command, stand in red waters to his knees until his bones joined the rocks.

“Where are you?” Daenerys stood in front of him, trying to find her knight in his pale eyes. He was lost in thought, drifting from her toward the endless waters of the bay.

“A thousand miles away,” he breathed. The fire burned hot between them so he stepped away, taking a seat on a misplaced boulder.

“This cave,” Daenerys seated herself opposite. The fire crackled, hissing at the snow whipped into the cave. Born in the South, she'd never seen ice take to the wind except as an abstract capping on far off mountains. Her eyes kept lingering on the delicate flakes dancing near the flames. How fragile they were and yet they swallowed countries. “You have been here before?”

Jorah stared past the flame toward the mouth of the cavern where the sea shone. Day was breaking and it was beautiful. Soon the snows would blow away leaving only blue, stretching above the ice. “Many times, Your Grace,” he replied. “I played here as a child – wandering through the caves beneath the island. All the children do. We were wild compared to the houses of the mainland.” He paused at fond memories of panicked Lords inspecting their offspring after such adventures. “This cave reaches into the forest and emerges within the pines quite near the village. There is fresh water and game. We'll eat well before we make our final journey into Braavos.”

“You look to the sea often,” she noted, catching him there again. “Are you waiting for something?”

He shook his head. “No, Khaleesi. Are you worried? The Iron Bank may yet refuse us,” he added, when she dipped her head curiously. “Their caution is insidious, they'd snuff the flame for fear of fire. A foreign queen on the back of a dragon is definitely a risk.”

“As is a bloody conquest of Westeros. What if I win?” she postured, curving an eyebrow.

“A fair question.”

“One they must consider. Their money, all their hundreds of years of careful planning, could be turned to ash in moments.”

“They could kill you.”

“Better men have tried. Imagine a dragon, free of Lannister debt with control of world capital. The trade waters are mine – the Eastern lands have fallen silent. It is a frightening concept to the free cities. Perhaps I'll make them slaves again, fly my dragons above their marble walls and bring them to kneel amidst the crash of stone.”

“That is against your nature.”

“They do not know that. Prejudice is a powerful champion. I intend to use it.”

“Varys and Tyrion have left their stain on you. Sometimes I hear their scheming in your words.”

“Was that not your intention, Ser, in bringing them to my side?”

“To be fair, I thought I was bringing a head – I did not realise it would talk.”

Laughter rang through the cave. She wondered how long Jorah would hold that over the imp. “I understand you are itching to kill him but you must be friends now,” she scorned him good-naturedly. “By my command you  _will_ get on.”

Jorah would rather murder the Lannister heir but gave his queen a gruff nod. “Talking is what they do. By the time we arrive in Braavos, they should have had ample opportunity to introduce our terms.”

*~*~*

_Snow._ Daenerys could not get used to the feel of it – sinking into the cold depths. A roar stormed over the lip of the cliff, pushing Daenerys away from the fall. She leaned in conflict, feeling the rush of ice in its breath.

Everything was larger in the North, armoured against the cold with layers of fur, feather and fat. Even the gulls looked too heavy to fly, tumbling in the wind with shrieks. They'd tear their fine Southern cousins apart, flay the flesh from the bone and feast.

Behind, at the forest's edge, a deer picked through the snow. With a white snout, it hunted for slivers of green among the frozen drifts. It had a nest of black-tipped antlers, glistening in the sun with more prongs than she could count. The creature paused when it saw her, black eyes searching the dragon's face.  _What did it see?_ She wondered. A pale girl lost at the edge of the world or a dragon, hungry for blood...

Jorah followed the deer, hunting the rabbits that stalked its path. He caught himself staring at the woman beyond, wrapped in fur, fending off the wind. A thick hood draped over her silver hair but Daenerys' eyes cut through the distance between them. How often had he visited this scene? The peace of his dreams was replaced by the foreboding strip of white along the opposing edge of water and the demons that gathered on its rocks. Were they there now, watching him watch them? Armies of the dead from his father's stories... He wondered if Daenerys had seen them in her visions, if those were the secrets she kept pressed to her heart.

“Does the bay ever freeze over?” She asked, when he returned with a pair of bloodied rabbits.

He looked to the water, standing beside her on the cliff. Already it was clogged with the white tips of ice chunks, broken away from the mountains in the  _Lands of Always Winter._ “Never in my time,” he replied, “but there are stories of a time when armies walked from our keep to those mountains. Old stories – probably not true.”

“Why do you say that, Ser?”

“The stories are mostly songs the children sing,” he replied. “Songs of dragons made from ice, dead men that come in the night with eyes blue as the winter skies.” Like the one above them now. “Songs of a king and his pale queen. They brought a night that never ends with their cursed union. These are the whispers that unite the North, Your Grace. The terror in our hearts is brewed when we are very small. The bravest of our heroes still quake before The Wall.”

“I thought you crawled around The Wall...”

He grinned. “Aye, I did but I was very young and foolish.” In truth, Jorah didn't fear The Wall. He  _revered_ it. “Before we went back, my father showed me the stains of ash where a hundred Wildlings burned. Even those creatures, fierce as they are, fear death's final curtain lifting.”

“Do you mean it?” Daenerys asked seriously, resting her hand on his arm. It made him pause.

“Yes, Khaleesi. There are things beyond that wall with as much magic as your dragons. I know that everyone from Riverrun to Dorne laughs at our words but they are true. I-” he stopped himself before he went too far. He'd seen what the undead made of the living. Those pieces of flesh in the ice. Bits of _Wildling_ arranged like a fucking mosaic. “Varys has been receiving letters from the Night's Watch. Lord Commander Snow swears to have seen these dead men. He may be a bastard but he's no liar.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“He's a _Stark_ ,” Jorah replied, as if that was explanation enough.

“The gods must wonder why we do it... Why we choose to endure in these places. Let the snows have it...”

“For the same reason you razed cities, Your Grace. I know it may not amount to much looking at it now but this is home. The bones of the North remember that we are here to protect the realms of men. Nothing is beyond the reach of Winter, not even King's Landing. We need that strip of ice and the men that stand along it.”

Daenerys closed her eyes. She had seen snow tumble over the blackened ruins of her throne.  _The North falls_ ...

###  **WHERE THE NARROW SEA MEETS THE SHIVERING SEA**

Dead eyes. Varys saw them in the waves. In the sky. In the scales of the dragon and the blade of his sword. A beautiful blade, he lamented, hovering his hand above the Valyrian steel. _Truth_ – the irony was not lost on him. Violence _was_ truth. Footsteps approached. Varys folded the cloth over his most valued possession and turned to find Tyrion.

“Are we here then?” Varys asked, already dressed in his silks. He had them specially embossed with dancing dragons and insisted Tyrion do the same. Appearances were everything at this stage of the game.

Tyrion nodded. “Nearly. We've covered Rhaegal as you requested though I can't say how long that will last.” He noticed Varys lingering by the chest housing the sword. Tyrion had not forgotten what happened that night and neither had Varys, if his mournful disposition was anything to go by. He'd been sulking around the ship ever since. Maybe he was missing those vast empty halls of King's Landing. There was nowhere left to _pace_. “He was your friend,” Tyrion added. “A very find friend.”

Varys closed the lid on the chest and slid its gold bolt across. “He was dangerous. There are only so many times you can sidestep disaster before you fall through the cracks.”

“Do you think that will happen to us?”

Varys wandered past Tyrion and nodded for him to follow. He led them above deck. Tyrion was correct, the _Braavaian Costlands_ drew to an end on their right. The land curved and shattered into islands, clinging to the treacherous waters of the _Shivering Sea_. Somewhere, amidst that tangle of sea and stone, they'd find _Braavos_.

“The last time I was here, I walked down from the mountains and crossed the hundreds of stone bridges linking the capital to the mainland,” he avoided Tyrion's question. “It's a vile place, built by slaves seeking revenge. That is never a firm foundation for an empire. You can feel their resentment in the walls like a poison.”

“They're not doing so badly,” Tyrion pointed out.

“Oh, they are rich enough – richer than their masters, one might say. That has not made them happy. I've never lived in more pitiable place.” Varys eyed the imp as he climbed onto the rail for a better look. “You are not still concerned, I hope...”

“Trading me back to Cersei for payment of Lannister debts is not a bad play,” Tyrion admitted. “Especially for someone as clever as you. I'm quite fond of my head where it is.”

“Do you trust me?”

Tyrion looked at Varys for a very long time before answering. “No.”

“Good.”

“Just remember, the dragon likes me.” Tyrion wasn't talking about the queen. “Missandei...” Tyrion bowed his head as she approached, feeling rather awkward from his stance on the rail. For once he was towering above the conversation.

“Another raven came from Grew Worm,” she started. “The fleet is safe in the harbour. They've had no word from our Queen. Is that it?” Missandei looked past Tyrion to the tip of the land where the first glimmer of marble walls emerged from the rock.

“Not quite. Anything from our friends in the South?”

“No.”

“They are biding their time, I suppose, waiting to see if we are successful before playing their cards on the table. Snakes.”

“You cannot blame a creature for its nature,” Varys replied.

###  **THE HAUNTED FOREST – BEYOND THE WALL**

The dead horse shifted beneath him, flaps of flayed skin hanging loose. Some of it dragged in the snow, held together by fragments of sinew and bone. An ancient forest concealed the horror. Beneath the creaking bowers of _Weirwoods_ and swaying pines, dead men marched without a breath. Their king held back, eyeing the flicker of ice in the distance. He could see it when the Winter winds blew hard enough to bend the forest. He remembered the world from atop that wall – he was king of it all.

###  **PORT MORAQ**

###  **GREAT MORAQ – THE JADE SEA**

  
  


“Quick – take the ship 'round there – into the shade of the mountain.” Quaithe leaned over the edge of the ship, eyeing the black dot tossed about in the sky at the very edge of the horizon.

“Too shallow – not good,” the captain protested.

“You can move the ship or burn alive,” Quaithe replied. That was enough for the men. They started unfurling the sails before the captain nodded and left her at the rail. It had to be another one of Daenery's dragons but without its mother, Quaithe feared what it might do.

“You're leavin' us?”

Quaithe climbed down the rope ladder towards a small row boat. Their ship was moored in the dark water where the mountain permanently infringed upon the waves, invisible unless you knew where to look. “I must warn Wreab,” she replied. “Whatever is accompanying that dragon, it's headed for the port. He'll want to make himself scarce.”

“I'll send one of the men,” the captain offered before boldly reaching over the side of the rail, daring to take her arm. “You cannot leave us to the will of a dragon!”

Quaithe levelled her pale eyes on him. They were the only part of her body left open to the world. “The dragon will be on the docks of _Port Moraq_ ,” she assured the captain. “Stay here. Stay _quiet_.”

*~*~*

Daario eyed the mess of buildings taking shelter in the forest. A line of ships braved the winds screaming along the _Cinnamon Straits_ before tacking against it, listing sharply before passing the jaws of the stone leopards that guarded the port. His fleet approached from the North, enjoying the fair trade winds of the _Jade Sea_. _Viserion_ loved stretching his golden wings, tumbling and diving. One minute he was sailing between the pirate fleet – clipping the waves and the next, he'd vanished beneath the water, chasing dolphins.

“They're closing the ocean gates!” The man in the crow's nest shouted, leaning over his blackened perch with a spyglass.

Daario stood at the helm of the lead ship. Killing the pirate queen made him king by the law of the sea. He had stood unchallenged, drenched in blood with a _Valyrian_ sword dragging along the deck and a dragon at his back. The cursed creatures of _Yin_ took several of their ships and a small fortune but the rest of the fleet sat low in the water, weighed down with gold. What they didn't have was food.

“Fly the red flag.”

It was hoisted behind him, hanging tight in the wind. An hour slipped by. Daario's pirate fleet inched their way toward _Port Moraq_ until they could smell the spices on the air, driving the starving pirates mad. They itched at their swords, lined the rails and draped themselves over the ship masts like gulls.

“The gates are opening...” The watchman followed his shout with a whistle to the captain.

Daario smirked. “Tell your crews, best behaviour,” he said, striding between the captains of the fleet. “There will plenty of murdering on the other side of the sea. We're here to trade. Supplies enough to reach Westeros and no more. Understand?”

The whole ship suddenly fell to the side, rocking back and forth as _Viserion_ landed. He flapped his wings, awkwardly folding them under the sails. “As for you...” Daario wandered towards the creature. They'd come to an accord or sorts. _He must be lost_ , he thought. Maybe he was only following in hope that Daario would lead him to Daenerys. Clever dragon. “You stay here. Guard my fleet.” The dragon's only reply was to begin chewing on one of the masts, trying to free a tail bone from his teeth.

###  **BEAR ISLAND – BAY OF ICE**

_Daenerys approached Bear Island's cliff. The snow had been replaced with thick carpets of grass, shaded by an oppressive forest with ferns and vines wrapping themselves around the branches above, strangling their neighbours. Tiny wild flowers sprang in groups wherever the sunlight touched. Their delicate petals rustled as she passed._

_At the very edge of the cliff was a sprawling Weirwood with fat roots tumbling over the side, feasting on the warmth inside the rock. Its crown of red leaves bled into the wind, littering the water below. A child knelt on the roots, scraping a shard of obsidian through the wood. Blood cried from the bark, running down the child's arm. It was no normal child. Its skin was green, freckled down the naked back where a spine protruded. Dark hair matted across its scalp, adorned with shells, beads and bone. The creature could have crawled from the folds of the earth._

_There was a cracking sound on the air coming from the Weirwood. It sounded like it was screaming..._

_The child paused, sensing Daenerys. She moved closer, kneeling carefully on the roots of the tree beside the child of the forest. It was a wondrous creation, like looking upon the sunset. Daenerys smiled, beckoning the child toward her, affection mixed with memories of her own child, lost to the witch's words. The child shifted closer to the silver woman. Sap dripped from its elbow onto the Weirwood. Curiously, it tilted its head. Huge, blue eyes fractured the filtered light, replicating the colours of the wild flowers, smoke and the sea. The child's grip tightened around the blade. Those eyes turned black. The child lunged, dragonglass aimed at Daenerys' heart. She felt it drive into her flesh – ice spill where fire once raged. Her blood trickled into the Weirwood roots. When she looked up, she saw her face carved into the wood. Screaming._

Daenerys woke.

She pressed her hands to her chest, diving between layers of fur to find her heart warm and beating. Eventually she sat up, finding herself beneath a veil of _Weirwood_ roots. The rabbits had been hung against the rock wall, creating ghastly shadows while their headless corpses dripped onto the stone. Daenerys was alone.

*~*~*

Jorah returned to forest, climbing a cascade of rocks to a mountain stream that gushed over the cusp of a cliff. Its water was sweet as he remembered so he knelt in the ice, dipping their flasks. His favourite rock remained balanced impossibly on the edge with a view of the ocean. It was odd. Here, in the middle of the woods, time had frozen. He could almost hear Dacey's voice mocking him on the wind. Jorah wondered where she was. Perhaps she was in the valley below, pacing the great hall beneath the timbers and dusty shields of their ancestors – guarding her people. She'd hate that. Dacey never wanted to rule – she wanted to _fight_. Of all the guilt in his heart, this burdened him the most.

The blow came from behind, knocking Jorah straight into the snow. He landed on his back, spread-eagled and dazed by the whispering pines above. _The hell?_ He thought, before swiftly rolling out of the path of another strike.

On his knees, he saw the lumberjack brandish the handle of his axe, moving in for another go. He was a true Mormont, towering and strong with a stiff grey beard and heavy woollen tunic. Jorah reached forward at the last moment, grabbing the handle of the axe. The force dragged him through the snow. The Mormont man tried to shake him off but Jorah swung his leg around, knocking the other man down. Jorah ended up in possession of the axe, which he used to pry himself off form the snow.

“I mean you no harm,” Jorah assured the man, rubbing the back of his head. “Dammit...” The dull thud of pain spread across his scalp.

The lumberjack went pale at Jorah's words. The old man shifted, returning to his feet where he proceeded to edge in on Jorah, grey eyes searching Jorah's. “I'll be fucking damned...” The man shook his head. Jorah was given no warning. The man was upon him, arms wrapped around Jorah's shoulders, smothering him with their considerable size. “Seven gods – you always were a cub. Never bloody grew!”

Jorah frowned as the lumberjack pulled back, though his hands kept a firm hold of Jorah's shoulders. “Dorin Fell!” Age had ravaged his features and a few good battles added scars to the score but he was still in there, his father's loyal man.

“'course it bloody is! Who the fuck else would it be out here? Might 'ave known. Nothin' touches that there ol' rock but you.” His cheerful tone shifted suddenly, lowering in caution. “You can' be 'ere lad. You know that. Much as I love t' see you.”

“I know,” Jorah assured him. “One night and then we'll be gone.”

Dorin was shaking his head in disbelief. “Truly, I thought you were long in the grave, lad.” There was a sadness to his eyes. Only a ghost of Dorin remained. “I am 'appy to see you, my little king.” He squeezed Jorah's shoulders again, checking that he was real. “Not travellin' alone then?”

“No I-” Jorah stopped when he saw his queen wandering through the snow behind Dorin, following his tracks. She was brazen, he'd give her that.

Dorin followed Jorah's eye, catching sight of the young beauty. She was tiny and fragile, like a snowflake. “Mormont, you amaze me. One after th' other, each more precious than the last. The gods smile on you.”

Daenerys approached cautiously, noticing the axe in Jorah's hand.

“Dorin, may I present Luciya of Lys.”

If Daenerys was surprised she didn't show it as she bowed her head respectfully to the old man.

Dorin eyed the woman carefully. He lashed out, shoving Jorah straight into the snow and fetched his axe back. “After all this time, you never learned how t' lie. That there is a Targaryen. Any fool with one good eye can see.” He'd watched Jeor do the same, nursing baby dragons. What good would come of it? Murdered as babes or murdered now – their fates were cursed by the gods. “Don' tell me...” he held up his hand to stop Jorah as he went to explain. “I had hoped – for your father's sake, that you'd find somewhere quiet, live a life.”

Jorah brushed snow off his cloak. “I was dead to my father,” he replied bitterly.

“Wrong, as usual.” Dorin prodded the side of Jorah's head with his finger, wondering if there was anything of worth in that hollow crown. All he could see was the babe he used to bring into the forest, walking under the pines to hush his cries. Poor thing. “He saved your life and spoke often of you. You were always his boy.”

Jorah could not move. Dorin's words bound his muscles and stilled his heart. He felt his eyes grow hot. “I don't-”

“-listen...” Dorin finished for him. “Your father, bless his soul, died believin' the world of you. He might 'ave been a tough ol' bear but he knew how t' love. A man does not forget his child. Even to the last, he thought he'd see you again, wandering along The Wall. He said you'd 'ave honour then. Join 'im in the watch. Think that's why he waited in that damned place.”

Tears freed themselves, vanishing over the curve of Jorah's cheek entirely without permission. He didn't know what to say.

“Soft as well,” Dorin noted. “Too gentle to rule – terrible with coin.”

Daenerys had to admit, the man had a point. Her knight would crumble at the first starving child. He understood the politics of empires well enough but there was too much goodness in him to wear the crown. Daenerys was different. She knew full well how to burn a city to the ground. Sometimes she imagined herself, walking through the ash of her fury. Would he still call her 'queen' then? Maybe he'd run a sword through her back.

“Ser,” Daenerys began, but Dorin stopped her.

“There are no 'sers' in the North – 'cept your knight. He earned his with Southern blood.”

“Dorin – we shall be gone in the morning. Can we persuade you to turn a blind eye to our encounter?”

“What encounter?” he smiled warmly. “Ran into a bear cub. Nothin' more.” Dorin turned back to the young Mormont Lord. “Certainly I did not see our Lord Mormont...” This time Dorin knelt in the snow at Jorah's feet, dipping his head of white hair, the axe across his knees as though it were a sword.

“Up – I beg you,” Jorah tugged him from the snow.

Daenerys bit her lip, watching the man bow to her knight. She knew he had been Lord of _Bear Island_ long ago but had never lingered on the idea that men saw him as a king.

“I'm not your lord any more,” Jorah insisted.

“No indeed,” Dorin replied. “Our Lady is fierce. For honour's sake she'd 'ave your head.”

“Dacey always was a stickler for – what is it?”

Dorin was shaking his head sadly. “You don't know then? How would you...” Dorin realised. Whispers of the North barely made it to the capital let alone across the _Narrow Sea_. “Dacey is not our lady.”

“She went ranging then...” Jorah sighed. “Always threatening to. Never thought she'd actually go. My father probably let her through the -” Dorin was quiet, averting his eyes to the young Targaryen beside, searching for the words he must say.

Daenerys understood. She moved forward, taking Jorah gently by the arm. He did not see.

“Dacey Mormont took her place amongst us,” Dorin replied slowly. “A lot has come to pass in the North since you left. The Starks are all bu' gone. Their war with the South tore our kingdom apart. Dacey answered the call and followed Robb Stark into battle. Many of our Northern lords and ladies, were butchered by the Freys and Lannisters. Ol' Walder Frey locked them in his hall under the sacred laws. They were unarmed when his men struck.” Dorin watched as Jorah started to shake. “Dacey. Her mother too... We call it 'The Red Wedding'. We don' know where Alysane is, went missing after Stannis was defeated. Lyra and Jorelle were stolen by Wildlings in the night. Only Lyanna remains. She is our lady now. I'm sorry, boy... I thought you knew.”

Jorah was expressionless as the news washed over him. He could not understand it. How could Dacey be gone, her mother and all her sisters... He just – he couldn't... “Lyanna...” he finally said. “I wish to see her.”

“Even if I let you, which I wouldn', our lady is not here. She took our army South to win back Winterfell from the Boltons. We had a raven this morning. We have won. Jon Snow, remember Ned's quiet bastard? Sulky thing. Used to lurk at the back of feasts. He rules the North. Lyanna declared him king before the Northern houses in defiance of the crown.”

“She was not long born when I left.”

“Aye, she's a child. Let the gods fear her, old an' new.” Dorin looked between the pair. They were exhausted from travelling and the poor dragon was shuddering in the cold. “I could take you in tonight. There's not much to it but I 'ave a fire, somewhere to sleep.”

“I thank you, no...” Daenerys replied softly. “We are settled. I do hope we meet again.”

“You will,” Dorin assured her. “I promised his father I'd keep an eye on him. Jorah... there was another raven from the citadel. White... You know what tha' means.”

*~*~*

Jorah barely noticed the cave. He laid against its unfriendly surface, crumpled up with the rugs and fur. A untouched cup of wine lay beside. The day and warn on. White clouds burleyed up from the North. _Drogon's_ tail flicked out from the wooded area. His vision blurred as another tear fell. He should have stayed and taken the Black.

Daenerys lowered herself to the ground, watching her knight silently for a time. She'd not seen him like this – lost. “Do not leave me now, bear,” she whispered. “Not when we're so close.”

Another tear. The hushed crash of waves below the cave. A hollow moan from the wind against the cliff.

“When I am queen, your family will be avenged,” she swore. “I'll find a way.”

He rolled his head against the rock, looking at his queen. “You cannot,” he replied, the first words he'd spoken in hours. “If we avenge every crime in the kingdom there will be no one left to rule. The blood will be endless until Westeros is an empire of ghosts. That's not the kind of ruler you want to be. I don't want to see you be that kind of ruler...” he added. “When does it end – if not with us?”

“I cannot kill the kingslayer either...”

“No. You cannot. He is the heir to an ancient, noble house.”

“A place at my table, is that what I am to offer the man that murdered my father? There is no justice.” Even as she said it, she heard her mother's screams. Defending her father was automatic but she had to wonder, would Jorah have done the same? She knew the answer to that. He'd have stormed into the room and cut the king's throat – thrown him out the castle window for the birds to pick through.

“Taking possession of the throne is not the test. Ruling is the test. I imagine what they will say of you, when we are both long gone.”

“Am I a tyrant?” she asked.

“You are the best of those that came before you. Now please,” he added softly, “I'd like to sit alone a while.”

 


	46. Bleeding Door of Braavos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, real life was being pesky. If you have a moment and you like what you read, please leave a little ♥

  

###  **BEAR ISLAND – BAY OF ICE**

_Clink. Clink. Clink._

An ornamental pin fell from the folds of Jorah's leather belts, bouncing over the uneven mess of cave before rolling toward the fire. Eager flames danced on the dome-shaped surface, unfurling expectantly before Daenerys snatched it away, feeling the silver warm against her flesh. She turned it over on her palm. Innumerable scratches scuffed the metal leaving it dull while inlaid at its heart was a construct of obsidian shaped into a bear print. The darkness was infinite, dragging Daenerys' gaze deeper. Whispers lurked between those layers of black glass. Memories. Fire. A pair of grey eyes. They shuffled together like stones beneath a fjord.

Jorah lamented, strewn against the cave's entrance where he was buffeted by the wind like some creature ripped out of an old song. How mournful he looked with his weathered features dusted in snow. Mormonts were a species of statue, bred from ice and tossed into the coals where they solidified. Forged on _Bear Island_ he was a part of their mountains. Exile placed land between those wiles and his feet but Jorah's heart remained tucked into a forgotten corner of the North.

The day passed in silence except for a raucous of gulls swiping by. Even _Drogon_ was content to sulk in his hiding place. Daenerys cupped Jorah's pin to her breast. Memories raced through her mind, tangled between truth and prophecy. She tried to fish her way through them until they distilled to a single truth...

_She had held this pin before._

Clear as anything, she could picture herself sitting on the floor as a child, spinning the pin over and over, seeing how long she could keep it twirling before it inevitably tumbled between the joins of pale stone. Ser Willem Darry worked behind, stooped over his desk dispatching ravens.

_A window slammed, angered by a storm. Clink. The pin fell still. One of the Darry's feathered creatures hopped over the floor toward her, shaking rain from its wings. It turned a black eye lustfully on the trinket, sharp beak parted as it itched to strike. Daenerys could see its feathers tense. Claws dig in. Three eyes. She hated those eyes... Her dreams were full of ravens. Black sentries, they guarded her nightmares._

Ser Darry was not a Mormont, of that Daenerys was sure, so how had he come across a bear token? At her ceaseless pleading he'd withdrawn it from the depths of his cloak where it was kept beside his heart. Not any Mormont pin either – _this was the exact one_ that she held now as though it were mislaid by time. Did Ser Darry know the Mormonts? Were they friends from before the wars? How could this inconsequential thing make its way back across the _Narrow Sea_ after Darry breathed his last?

No. That wasn't it.

She had never seen Ser Darry die, if indeed he was dead... Instead he had faded to nothing on the shores of a _Lysene_ beach while she and her brother sailed with Illyrio. Daenerys was forbidden from telling that story. Even now she'd lie if asked.

“ _The most dangerous of secrets,”_ _Illyrio cautioned sternly, as the white-haired children cried. His plaited beard rustled in the sea wind while Daenerys clambered up the ship's rope to watch the black dot vanish on the beach. Ser Darry waited until the sail vanished over the water's curve._

Daenerys observed Jorah carefully. He guarded the bay with piercing eyes, picking over every wave crest and breath of foam. His dream of  _home_ lay shattered on the rocks. He could not let go, staring at the remains – disenchanted by the world.

Another pine cone tumbled into the fire. It filled with white smoke which billowed between the flames and washed across her face. So familiar... Daenerys' eyes closed.

_Ser Darry's fires smelled of pine. He burned them in the Summer, when storms washed against their home knocking swollen lemons from the tree beside her window. She could hear them falling to the ground, rolling down the marble steps and plopping into the canal. The memories paled against her prophetic dreams. The man that raised her was a blur. Sometimes a shadow. Sometimes a scent. It was his voice that she remembered clearest, soft and deep, reciting stories from the edge of the world. Darry knew all the battles from the last thousand years. While her brother listened intently as Darry listed kings and all their knights, Daenerys waited for the tales of dragon riders, living and dying by the flame. They soared above the Westerosi kings, dragons fighting dragons. Later, when the storms died and the winds turned, Ser Darry pulled up a chair – nudged the fire and whispered of The North. Those dull eyes came alive as he spoke of the Haunted Forest full of walking bones – of a wall made of ice and winters so cold that entire villages froze during the night. Yes, Daenerys could see his pale blue eyes again. Those stories were writ in them..._

It could not be. _It must._

Clear as anything, those eyes were before her now. How had she forgotten? She saw them every day, mirrored in her mournful knight. Like father, like son.

*~*~*

“I found this,” Daenerys approached, holding the pin out to Jorah.

He stirred then took it from her, brushing his thumb affectionately over the ruined thing. The edge of his lip curled with affection. “I did not expect this to survive Asshai,” he admitted. “But here it is, defiant. Where did you find it?”

“Fell off your belt while I was preparing our things for travel. You've been carrying it for some time... Since we first met.”

“Silly really,” he admitted, tipping it back onto her outstretched hand. “This was a gift from my father before he left to swear his service to The Wall – for luck, he said. I was never one for the grace of the gods, old or new. Luck was all he could offer.” He saw the curious eye of his queen.

“I was young,” he explained, “married again and early into my lordship of Bear Island.” Jorah instinctively touched his hip where a sword normally lay. He was missing his. That was a piece of steel he'd never see again. “The House sword sat at my side – I can still feel the bear pummel under my fist. You've never seen steel gleam like the Valyrian kind. It catches the sun and sucks the fire out of it. When it tears through flesh some of that fire is released. Men are already falling before the blade touches them. The pin is worthless, in everything but sentiment. It belonged to my grandmother. Even when I was a slave no one bothered to steal it. Are you alright?” The queen was oddly fixated on him, shifting closer on the furs until one of her hands came to rest against his chest. He breathed deeply, unsure of her intentions.

“Your father,” she persisted, playing absently with his shirt. Masked in foreign clothes with a beard that had thickened in past weeks, left him looking nothing like a knight and she, Daenerys imagined, hardly a queen. “Did he ever spend time away from Bear Island?”

“Strange question,” he noted. “From time to time he travelled South, a few months here and there. He only truly left before joining the Watch. _One last trip_ , he'd called it. Must have been about four years. He wanted a better look at the world he planned to spend his life protecting. He bundled himself into one of the long boats and rowed off into the fog. I remember that night very clearly. The full moon was high and bright, all the stars were banished. There was an expanse of black and a sea of white fog. The fisherwomen wailed and tossed stones into the waves. He had been their true lord, not me.”

“Where were you?”

“Watching from the cliff.” He pointed above.

“I would have been very young at that time.”

Jorah was not following. “I imagine so, yes. It was around the time when the realm fell apart. The Mad King was slain. Baratheons took the throne. You and your brother were smuggled to the East by – who did you say it was?”

“Ser Willem Darry.”

“Ah, brother of the Kingsguard. One of you family's most loyal champions – left alive... My father met him once, long before the war and I attended a tournament where he fought. He was tall, strong and an elegant fighter, nothing like a bear. I think I wanted to be like him with all the ladies of the kingdom dangling favours over the rail. When he raised a blade to another man, it was an offer to dance. Are you crying, Khaleesi?”

“I remember,” she whispered. “Not a vision, a memory... This pin belonged to the man that raised me.”

“...what?”

“It can not have been Ser Darry, you see. He may well have smuggled me from Dragonstone as a babe but the man that settled us in Braavos was a bear with kind, grey eyes and stories of the North.” The longer Daenerys stared into Mormont's eyes, the clearer the truth became. “What a strange folly fate has spun,” she whispered, touching his face softly with her free hand. Her fingers traced his features as though she were seeing them for the first time. “Ice nursing fire. No sooner had he left, you arrived.”

“Daenerys, I don't think-”

“Dorin must know the truth if he is, as you say, your father's best man. He can confirm my suspicions.”

“Khaleesi, Bear Island fought _against_ your father. The Starks called and we answered, riding for Robert Baratheon. He-” This time it was Jorah who paused. Something that had never made sense fell into place. A lie, hidden in plain sight. “When I first met you and...” even now it was difficult for him to say, so she helped.

“When you were in communication with Varys...”

He nodded. “The instruction to kill you came from Robert but in the letter Varys sent he noted Eddard Stark's objection.  _Particularly._ I never thought of it until now. That is a strange detail to add to a command.”

“Varys did not wish you to succeed but couldn't risk betraying Robert directly. He manipulated you into defying the order. Do you think he gambled that your allegiance to the North was stronger?”

“He need not have bothered, Your Grace.”

“I know,” she assured him. “But Varys did not. To him you were a rogue sellsword of noble birth. If the Starks were protecting Aerys' children, why not the Mormonts?” Daenerys shook her head eventually. “I don't know what it means. The North has never truly been part of the empire. What do they care for a pair of orphaned Targaryens?”

“It means,” Jorah sat up a little, forgetting the bay, “that you may have more supporters in Westeros than you imagine. Varys has been keeping secrets. If he also has friends in Braavos where you were raised, I wager he'll call on them while meeting with the Iron Bank. He's been playing this game before you or I realised that we were in one.”

“What is it?” Daenerys let her hand slip away as he shifted again, “Jorah...”

“Varys is not dragging your ambassadors to Braavos for the bank. We're invading Westeros regardless of what a few tiresome men say. He's there to waken old allegiances but he needed a valid reason to travel. We must speak to Dorin again.”

“Jorah – does Varys work for or against my reign?”

“For, I think...” Doubt had sewn itself. “Wanting you to dismantle the empire and wanting you to rule it are two different things.” He stressed. “At the moment, they are indiscernible from one another.”

Daenerys laid her head against his chest. His arm slid around her shoulders, keeping her close. Silently, she pinned the trinket onto the inside of his shirt, protected and hidden from the world. She'd not have him lose it now.

“I'm sorry you lost your family,” Daenerys whispered.

“S'alright,” he slurred. “I always knew Dacey would die young,” Jorah admitted. “It was written in every moment. There was too much fire in her. She'd have fought every man in Westeros to pass the time.”

“And won.”

There was a long pause where red rims darkened around the edge of his eyes. “She was slaughtered without a sword in her hand. That is no death for a warrior.” Gods he hoped he never had to see her end. Never that. He wanted to think of her as the bear in the snow, knocking him to the ground with a stick.

_He is thinking about his own end_ , Daenerys assumed. Even dying on the mountain in  _Asshai_ Jorah had clung to his blade, brandishing it in death. She swore that if he died, he'd be buried with a sword.

“I wish I could go back, step between the folds of time and tell her to _run_. Flee beyond the wall or stay on Bear Island if she must. The South killed her.”

It was Daenerys who reached up, brushing a tear from the edge of his eye before it could fall into the tangle of his beard. “You're shaking...”

He frowned. “Am I?” Jorah lifted his hands.  _He was shaking._ The markings on his skin darkened. “This isn't – I don't...” His queen's face blurred. The poison in his veins never died. It ebbed, rising and falling like the tide. “Asshai...”

“Jorah – calm down,” Daenerys took him by wrists as he started to writhe against whatever raged in his blood. The script etched into his flesh burned at her touch, fighting the poison to keep him alive. “No – no, don't do that – Jorah, please...” Daenerys was pulled along as Jorah sagged to the side, falling against the stone where he started to convulse.

_Jorah's hands were covered in blood. It ran into the snow, melting rivers around his feet. Stretching as far as he could see, the armies of men knelt before him. Behind, Jorah could hear the cracking of ice._

“There you are,” Daenerys pressed a rag, covered in snow to his forehead. The cold brought him back. You would frighten me, Ser...”

His breath calmed as the writing faded into his skin. “Quaithe never told me what she did that night,” he admitted. “The poison remains. Sometimes – I see things that aren't real. They are not like your dreams, Your Grace. These are – well, Quaithe could not say what they were. It is not known. Madness, perhaps. They come from a place beyond death.”

Much of what he saw was impossible. Deserts turning to oceans – stars bleeding onto the world.

“Quaithe saved you – that is enough for me,” Daenerys assured him.

“You, more than any alive, understand that blood magic has a price. I have not paid it.”

“Maybe Quaithe did?” Daenerys lied. “Why are you smiling, Ser?”

Jorah wrapped his hand around her wrist, surprising her with his tenderness. “Were you worried? I think you were...”

She slapped him lightly, moving off him. “Last time I fuss over you, Ser. Seeing as you are clearly better, shall we surprise your old friend before the weather turns on us?”

His queen tugged him from the ground and he had no choice but to follow.

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

  
  


“Bear's arse, what happened to you?” Tormund caught the little man wandering between sodden tents erected directly on the mud. The fabric strained against its ropes, blown about in the wind. Snow thickened. Ice crept over the ruins behind. Horses whinnied frantically as those beyond saving were slaughtered and served up as meat. Smoke from the pyres sank, suffocating the _Winterfell_ ruins.

Littlefinger held his neck. Blood tumbled through his fingers, ruining his fur collar.

“A mere accident,” Littlefinger snapped. Away from Sansa's presence, he felt the full bite of her blade. He was unaccustomed to battle's bitter edge. Pain lingered with the same sting as his plots. It burrowed through him, making his hands shake. “Do not trouble yourself.” He was forced to stop when the _Wildling_ king blocked his path. Bruises and swelling left Tormund's flesh an uneven nightmare. Word was he killed Lord Umber _with his teeth._ Littlefinger believed it. He briefly wondered if Lord Umber tasted as sour as he looked.

“If I don' trouble myself you'll like find your body on a pyre with those Bolton cunts.” Then Tormund pointed to Littlefinger's neck. “No good. Necks...”

An hour later, Littlefinger squeezed the edge of a chair until his bones threatened to snap. Tormund stitched with surprising skill but little care for his patient's comfort, if that's what you could call it. Every now and then Littlefinger caught a glimpse of the bloodied thread, twisting in the flesh. The reminder of mortality irritated him. He preferred to think of himself as a god. One of those myths. His will was as iron as the throne yet a common blade threatened to make a corpse out of him.

“Do you have many accidents like this, little man?” Tormund asked, casually pulling the suture through the pale flesh.

Littlefinger grimaced. “It is something I aim to avoid.”

He nodded. “It's the women you got to watch out for. Had one once – stuck me through the leg, right 'ere with a bit of pine tree.” Littlefinger wasn't sure what to make of that confession so he said nothing. Tormund continued. “That Stark bitch,” it was a compliment in his eyes, “she's dangerous. I'd keep my end out if I were you. Saw which tent you left, didn't I...” He replied, to the other man's questioning look. “Does the white wolf know?”

“There is nothing _to_ know.”

“Snow finds out might not go so well for you.” For a simple man, the _Wildling_ saw clearer than most.

“He requires my army to hold the North, though you may have a point.” He conceded. “Jon Stark has a tendency to allow emotion to override sense.” Tormund was frowning. “He rushes in without thinking.”

“Aye he does. Thought he could take the whole army, standing there. Balls the size of boulders.”

Silence ebbed between them while Tormund tied off the final stitch. “Are you going to share this with Snow?” He asked carefully, unable to read the _Wildling's_ face.

“I quite fancy one of them fucking castles...” he replied casually, sitting back with a bladder of truly primal alcohol. It glugged down, burning a passage to his gut. The stench lifting off it was enough to make a rat gag.

“You believe I can secure you a castle...”

“Clever man – and land. None of that rocky shit. Soft and black.”

_Seven hells._ This is exactly what he didn't need. “No women?” The other man started laughing, nearly choking on his drink.

“Do as they please, don't they? No use bartering for them. Especially not this one.”

Clearly he had one in mind but Littlefinger's stomach turned at the thought. Maybe it was the wine. “All right. A castle and lands. You are owed them anyway.”

“If you like, you can say I did that,” he pointed to the wound. “Accident.”

###  **BRAAVOS – ESSOS**

  
  


“Here we go...”

Varys tilted his bald crown back as their ship passed under the shadow of the Braavosi titan. The wonder loomed above the harbour entrance like a god – all that was left of a mountain that blocked the lagoon from the _Shivering Sea._ Up close he could see rows of black slots layered beneath its stone tunic where barrels of oil once dropped onto the decks of great Valyrian warships, setting them alight with a roar of terrified screams. They burned for hours, floating across the harbour before sinking into the deep lagoon where they remain below the surface creating a reef. Varys did not linger on that thought in case a pair of lifeless eyes twisted through their wreck.

Today the stone giant was quiet. The harbour master rang his bell and directed them into a series of canals crowded with merchant craft. With a fair wind, white sails filled the air and trade nested in the open hulls of innumerable boats. Buskers blighted curves of stone that bridged the islands together. Braavosi schooled behind them with their distinctive ochre robes making them look like a crowded pond of Koi in a Dornish garden.

“This is all very civilised,” Tyrion observed, standing beside the Spider as they took in the view.

There were hundreds of islands clustered disorderedly. Those in the middle of the lagoon had buildings made exclusively of rock mined over three-hundred years from the ranges on the mainland. Tyrion could see nasty white scars running down several mountain flanks. The only exception was the famous _House of Black and White_ with its mismatched doors, perched on a lonely rise of rock. A strange air sank around that building, stilling the water and banishing seagulls from the steps. Even the sunlight died on its surface.

“Ah yes, the paradise of freed men,” Varys replied, with an overtone of ire. He seemed displeased by the city.

“Careful, old friend.”

“Of what? Freedom comes at a price, like everything else. Can you guess what it was?”

Tyrion never answered. As soon as they pulled away from the harbour's mouth the water turned sour. All manner of unpleasant thing bumped against their hull as they headed toward the inner docks. Their boat sat heavy in the water, burdened under the weight of a sleeping dragon whose restless tail slid across the deck, scraping long scars into the wood. Their crew adjusted the sails to cover it.

“The Iron Bank has offered us a private mooring in the Purple Harbour,” Varys said, helping direct the captain through the nightmare of water ways. The harbour was literally purple where the trapped water heated up in the sun, giving rise to a type of shallow weed. “We will meet with the council of bankers first and then retire for their lengthy deliberation. Do I have your assurance that the dragon will stay where it is for now?”

Tyrion eyed him blackly. “What do you want me to do... He's a _dragon_. There's nothing I can do if he fancies a snack.”

Varys canted over the side of the ship, shouting _Braavosi_ at canal boats laden with merchants attempting to latch onto their ropes and clamber aboard to flog useless shit and half-rotten fruit. Tyrion shifted out of the way as his livid compatriot dismissed his usual graces, hurling dire insults at the boisterous men below. It went on like this until they were moored. Exhausted, Varys returned to the deck, dabbing his brow.

“As I was saying,” Varys continued, “the dragon must remain hidden until the bankers have made their decision. We have one card to play. If it flaps in and all fire and fang we might find ourselves in a difficult position.”

*~*~*

The Iron Bank had set itself above the rest of the city with its colonnade drawn out like vertebra on a dragon. From both flanks, the columns cascaded down unnecessary marble steps until the final pair rested with their bases submerged into the water. It was an odd building in both proportion and soul. Tyrion could feel the stone mock his short legs which struggled on the steps. _Hateful place._ There was a loathing seeping from the stone.

“Your father swore never to set foot on these steps again,” Varys made conversation, as they climbed. “He'd rather bed a Stark than climb these steps.”

“I imagine that's because he owed a great deal of money.”

“Lord Petyr Baelish was a curious choice for Master of Coin. Oh he is very sharp with money,” Varys assured Tyrion, “but not in a way that benefits others. Somewhere, tucked away, he's lined a nest with gold.”

*~*~*

They were kept waiting in a cavernous hall for many hours with only an uninspired fountain dribbling away in the corner to break the monotone. Opulent and _empty._ Tyrion wondered if that was a reflection of the bankers' souls.

Eventually they were seated in the reception room on a series of precarious wooden stools opposing the sprawl of granite bench. Behind were chairs equal to thrones basking in the sunlight streaming through great archways in the wall. Tyrion averted his gaze to Varys who was busy folding his layers of silk so that it didn't drag on the floor as he lowered himself. Missandei carefully took her place. Her chair shifted loudly on mismatched legs. Neither of them said anything but their minds were alike.

Tyrion was about to climb onto his perch when the iron door swung open, releasing a curtain of incense. The bankers shuffled silently on the stone, fanning out along the bench. They placed their palms on the stone and bowed. Bald heads caught the light before the men took their thrones. The outcome was not quite what the bankers had intended. Overburdened by their display of wealth, they appeared unusually small. Tyrion was underwhelmed. They were just men. Unremarkable men...

The silence between the two parties persisted until Varys leaned forward. “Greetings. If I may introduce-”

“We know exactly who you are and why you are here, Varys, or we would not have granted you passage.” Tycho Nestoris, a slender man with elongated features picked up a quill and scratched a note on his parchment. The ink was thick, drowning the page. “Your _numerous_ ravens were quite sufficient.”

Varys bowed his head respectfully but Tyrion could feel his prickle of embarrassment.

“And what a surprise,” Tycho continued, his attention wandering to the dwarf, “Tywin's spare heir. Your sister is looking for you.” The banker let that linger between them. “Too bad she and the Crown have a differing opinion on outstanding debt. We hold a preference for the literal translation of a deadline. This is why you are here.”

“The Braavosi have no army of note,” Varys pointed out tactfully, “and thus, no way of collecting these significant debts without incurring costs that threaten your bottom line. We have an army and a new queen.”

“So we hear. Where is this queen?” Tycho theatrically looked around the room. “The last usurper of the Iron Throne presented himself to our council as a sign of respect. Your queen has vanished.”

“We were sent in advance,” Tyrion cleared his throat, “to discuss the conquest of Westeros and resolution of the realm's debts in exchange for temporary support of her claim.”

“You do not want money?”

“We have money,” Varys shrugged. “We are after something more valuable and are prepared to buy it at a fair price. Is the Lannister debt sufficient price for a throne?”

“Legitimacy...” Tycho mulled the word over, as if it tangled in the fingers he wriggled in the air. “Forgive our surprise. Targaryens are not in the habit of asking for what they can take.”

A smirk drew out the edges of Varys' pale lips. “It is a new world.”

*~*~*

Outside they scattered, sitting on the vulgar marble steps. Tyrion found a crack in one of them and picked restlessly at it, doing what little damage he could manage.

“That was awful,” Missandei said, batting Tyrion's hand away from the steps. Destroying their building would not help their cause.

“I actually thought it went quite well,” Varys replied, earning him matching looks of choler from his companions. “That is how things are done with the bankers of Braavos. They like to ensure you know your place – namely somewhere far beneath them. Even rulers have to bend the knee to their gold.”

“If they ask Daenerys to 'bend the knee' they'll find out how easily gold melts.” Tyrion muttered quietly.

“Which is why we are here and she is not.” Varys turned away in a flourish of silk.

Tyrion reached forward, catching folds of it in his hand. “Where are you off to then?”

Varys freed himself from the dwarf. “Friends.”

“You don't have any friends...”

“Everyone has friends,” Varys assured him. “Even spiders.” He dipped his head respectfully and peeled away, skimming down the marble steps as though he hovered on a cushion of air.

“Something troubles you...” Missandei observed.

Tyrion's curious gaze was intense. “'Troubles' is the wrong word. I'm curious, more than anything.”

She followed his eye-line. “I could follow him,” Missandei offered. “It is something my master used to command of me. He won't know I'm there.”

“Alright,” Tyrion agreed. “But be careful.”

Missandei smirked. “Of what? Bankers?”

Tyrion returned her smile, finding it on his lips quite some time after Missandei slipped through the crowds out of sight. He checked the skies. It was foolish to imagine a dragon unfurling its wings onto the wind. _“Come on...”_ Tyrion whispered to the expanse of blue.

*~*~*

The narrow alleys and stone bridges pressed the city's inhabitants together making it easy for Missandei to remain a few steps behind, unseen. Varys moved swiftly, ducking from the markets into the outskirts of the city which lingered within reach of the mainland. Potted trees appeared in lavish ceramic pots, flourishing against the stone in ever-increasing explosions of green. Vines ate at the walls, draping sprays of pink flowers over bleached stone. Patches of foliage began to shrivel at the unseasonally cold weather, dying in the light while the snowline on the ranges crept toward the valley.

Varys stopped outside a terrace. A lemon tree, tortured by age, sprawled uncontrollably over one window bearing heavy fruit. He checked the crowds, scanning their faces. Missandei turned, sinking into a stall before he saw her.

The terrace had a bright red door, chipped and worn with an enormous bronze handle at its centre. It was ornate – a sun with a spear piercing its heart. Varys knocked. A few minutes later he disappeared inside for nearly an hour. He left empty handed, ducking into the streets.

Missandei gasped as a merchant ran aground on her. They collapsed into each other, hitting the cobblestone before rolling toward a narrow line of rock separating the pathway from the water. Missandei smelled its filth mix with the hot breath of the man crushing her. By the time she was free Varys had boarded a narrow canal boat and pushed off, headed across the busy water toward the only possible destination. The foreboding residence with two doors; one black and one white.

*~*~*

“Is it enough?” Varys laid the Valyrian sword on the table, delicately folding back its silk coverings to reveal the blade. He averted his eyes – heartbroken by the thought of what he was about to do.

Jaqen H'ghar clasped his hands behind his back. The long, plain robes of the Faceless Men dragged across the floor. Above loomed a _Weirwood_ face, butchered and mounted on the wall like a trophy. It was caught in a constant howl of pain with bleeding eyes dripping sap. There was a stain on the ground beneath while the rest of its body had been used to make one of the front doors.

“Enough for what is asked,” Jaqen H'ghar replied. His voice dragged like his robes, monotonous and lingering – catching occasionally. “Is a man sure there is not a different name he wishes to whisper to the Many Faced God? Perhaps a king?”

Varys _was_ killing a king. “No. A man is satisfied,” he mimicked their language perfectly. “Make sure it is done in good time.”

Jaqen H'ghar agreed, folding the sword in its silks. Every roll made a solid _thunk_ against the stone. The sound followed Varys as he crossed the room, echoing his steps. He reached out to brush his palm over one of the lonely columns. It was abrasive, devoid of affection.

A piece of his soul remained in _The House of Black and White._ He loved that sword but its loss was necessary. The world was littered with men who weren't willing to play the game of thrones with _risk_. Varys understood. He knew how to win.

*~*~*

Missandei hid against the cold stone, pressed flush against one of the columns as she listened to Varys drag open the door. Light streamed in as the door twisted on its hinge. Metallic screams joined the rustle of flame before it slammed, trapping her inside.

She peeled herself off the column and crept around its enormous body, silently edging toward a hidden spot where she might slip away toward the door. Glancing over her shoulder, she was confronted by a chamber of stone pillars, stacked like the sentries in her master's house.

Missandei startled.

A man stood before her. He'd moved like smoke, appearing from nowhere.

“A woman has lost her way,” Jaqen H'ghar touched the marble column, placing his hand near hers.

*~*~*

Varys returned to the _Iron Bank_ where he found Tyrion Lannister sprawled over the steps, baking in what little warmth he could find in the waning sun.

“You look like one of the Old Gods awaiting a feast.”

“Gods are usually taller.”

“A cherub, then...” Varys amended. “Where is Missandei?”

“Shopping,” Tyrion replied casually. “You were gone so long she decided to leave me at the mercy of our silent new friends.”

Varys did not challenge him on the point. “They will never be our friends,” Varys cautioned the lion. “Even if the Iron Bank genuinely support Daenerys' claim to the iron throne and sway some of the noble houses to our side, they value coin above all else. Friend today and foe tomorrow. At least their betrayal is predictable. Bankers are logical creatures. It makes them low risk partners.”

“And tiresome dinner guests. Will they support us?”

“Only if our queen storms through that door. The _Iron Bank_ has never backed a conqueror without seeing their face. As for money – we don't have any of that either. Not unless we steal it. To do that we'll have to kill a lot of rich men. Or rob a bank.”

They both eyed the bank behind them with amusement. Truthfully the wealth of _Braavos_ was hidden deep in the mountains. No one knew exactly where.

Their ship wasn't far away. Every now and then it twitched awkwardly. “The dragon's been stirring. I asked the crew to feed him another barrel of fish while you were out but soon he'll want to get up and stretch his wings.”

“The Braavosi have mixed feelings about dragons,” Varys sat beside Tyrion. “Some are attracted to their power and certainty, the rest see them as symbols of their ancient oppressors. There are many in Braavos that would try and kill our dragon if they knew it was here.”

“You'll forgive me for laying my gold with the dragon...” Tyrion has survived at least three quarters of a day without wine and his basic organs were protesting the withdrawal. If he didn't start drinking soon it was entirely possible that he'd go on a mad rampage through the city and kill, well, at least three Braavosi. His frustration manifested as a sheen of sweat.

“If the doors open and Missandei is not here, we'll gave to resume our meeting without her.”

“I know,” Tyrion assured him.

###  **BEAR ISLAND – BAY OF ICE**

“Are you certain this is the way?” Daenerys asked, as they prowled through the snow. The sun has started to fall into its crib and temperature plummeted with it, kicking up a nasty howl that drove loose snow from the ground into their faces. She felt the ice lacerate her with a thousand tiny scratches.

“You never forget how to find your home,” Jorah promised. He helped pull his queen out of the snow before continuing. She was a Southerner, not built for this kind of terrain but she carried on bravely. Dorin's cabin wasn't far, tucked into the tree line. “Old man built it himself,” Jorah said, as they approached. “Him and fifty bloody men,” he added with a grin. “Don't ask him the story or he'll be telling it all night. Here.”

Smoke shuffled through the pines, sinking with the cold. Nestled against a rise of rock was a tiny log cabin. A pile of firewood was stacked out the front, capped with Dorin's axe. Jorah side-eyed the weapon as they passed.

The door opened before they reached it.

“Heard you comin' half a mile back,” the old bear waved them in. “The forest is quiet,” he added, closing the door behind them to keep out the cold. “I know when a dear passes my door. So did he, once...” He pointed at Jorah. “Do you remember, boy?”

“Yes... I remember.” Jorah replied patiently. “It was a game,” he explained to Daenerys. “I had to name as many creatures as I could nearby. It's common here – teaches you to hunt and survive. You never forget it.”

“Ser Jorah is always the first to hear a _Dothraki_ hoard approach on the sand and you'll find no finer tracker.”

“He might have impressed the East but he'd starve beyond The Wall.” Dorin was making them tea, setting down what little he had onto a table. “Did you really think that you could keep the creature here and no one would notice?”

“Well, I was rather hoping,” Jorah admitted. “You're the only man crazy enough to live this close to the cliff.”

“S'quiet. Tea?” He passed the cups across to his guests. “You should know it was out huntin' as soon as you turned your back. Intelligent creature – I don' think it wanted you to see. Thought I was dreamin' – watching a dragon play in the snow...”

“Dorin – have you told _anyone_ what you saw?”

“Think I'm mad as is,” Dorin replied. “Last thing I want is some young cub considering himself a dragon hunter. Plenty of them growin' up without parents to talk sense into them. That's all that's left here. Broken relics and children.” The old bear caught the silver woman's eye. “The people pray for peace.”

“Is that what my father prayed for?” Jorah interrupted. He had a cup of tea held to his lips. The steam lifted, melting the last flecks of snow from his beard. “Is that what he worked for when he crossed the Narrow Sea?” Jorah knew he was right when Dorin sighed and set his cup down. It was as if all the lies of his life exhaled, mixing with the smoke. The old man pulled up a chair beside the fire and nodded.

“Aye, your father worked for it.”

There were no windows in the cabin. The walls were made from un-split pine logs nailed together and covered with furs. Above the fire was a single chimney allowing most of the scented smoke to drift into the wilderness of _Bear Island_. Somewhere, far beyond, Daenerys could hear the crash of the bay. Her gaze drifted to Jorah. He was tense, sipping his tea while keeping his body rigid in the chair. His ice sword was strapped in the leathers around his waist, concealed. As he shifted, Daenerys caught a glimpse of its blade near the hem of his cloak.

“His reasons were his own,” Dorin added, before Jorah could ask his next question. “Quiet man, your father. Didn' like to talk much. I did what he asked, you understand. As to why he did these things... I could not say.” Dorin's vision was not what it had been as a young man. Still, he could see perfectly plain the future laid out for the Targaryen queen. If peace was coming, it was a long way off. There was an ocean of blood between her and the throne. “All I know is he spoke of you,” Dorin nodded at Daernerys. “Only once. I walked him to The Wall myself. He should be here to see you grown.”

“When I take the throne,” Daenerys assured him, “I shall usher in the peace he prayed for.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Dorin replied, “that is not yours to give.”

Dorin rose, knocking the chair over. He crossed to the door and pressed his ear to the slight gap where a breath of the outside world was permitted entry. Jorah stood as well, moving cautiously to the door. Something was wrong.

“Is it the dragon?” Jorah asked, his voice cut to a whisper.

Dorin shook his head. “Worse. You must take your queen,” he pushed off the door, ran to the far wall and pried his sword from its dusty holds. He blew a layer of time off the blade and discarded the casing. “Leave and don' look back!”

Jorah caught up to the old man, blocking his way. “Dorin – what is wrong?”

“Take your queen,” Dorin repeated, pushing Jorah so sharply the younger man nearly ended up on the floor. “And _go_!”

Dorin stormed out of the cabin armed with his sword. As he passed the firewood he reached out, collecting the axe along the way without losing a step. With a weapon in each hand, Dorin stalked into the woods then vanished into the shadows and snow.

 


	47. White Ash

 

 

###  **BEAR ISLAND – BAY OF ICE**

Pine needles slashed across his face. Branches whipped backwards sending explosions of snow into the air as Dorin ploughed through the forest. He emerged on the flat, bloodied and freezing with his heart staggering to keep pace. He barely felt the weight of his axe and sword as he edged toward the cliff.

Dusk approached.

The waters of the bay had turned to milk, washing aimlessly on a dead tide. An army of _Wildling_ boats were scattered over it like leaves, brushing together in a mess. Dorin swore at the sinking star whose fiery edge was about to touch the water. It was an ambivalent god, shutting its eye on the world.

The closest boats were packed with hard-faced warriors, their uncouth vessels drowned in the blood of an earlier battle and littered with broken weapons while severed limbs had been left forgotten at their feet. One of the _Wildlings_ looked up toward the cliff, catching Dorin's eye over the vast desolation. They stared at one another until the horn of _Bear Island_ blew, cutting through the air to signal war. Dorin staggered back from the frontier of ice. Shortly after the village bells rang and the afternoon filled with screams.

The fires were lit. Smoke blackened the air. War began.

*~*~*

Vastly outnumbered, the inhabitants of _Bear Island_ poured onto the beach to greet the _Wildling_ invaders. They brandished an assortment of weapons, stumbling over the treacherous rocks that marred the coastline until they assembled, waiting for their enemy to draw closer. Each _Wildling_ boat that entered the shallows found itself swamped. Those on board were cut down as more defending islanders waded out. Before long the waters were soaked with blood. Women. Children. Beast. Man. They were all _Wildling_ and ended the same.

Old Bear Dorin took the cliff pass, scaling down a child's path until he hit the beach. His axe sank into a _Wildling,_ severing most of its neck. It fell away from his blade, collapsing against the black cliff wall to be fed upon by the waves which lacerated the coast, pulsing like the heart of some dying beast. Another crawled over a boulder, sliding along the smooth edge and directly onto Dorin's sword. Barely a man, the _Wildling_ grabbed at the knife in his belly – cutting his pale hands as he tried to free himself with a sickening groan of pain. Dorin finished it with the swing of his axe. The moment he struck, a sharp cry split the air. It came from above.

Dorin shifted to find a child peering over the rock at the body of the _Wildling_. Tears streamed down its face turning pink in the light. He pulled his sword and axe free. The body fell. Fresh blood ran down the handles of his weapons and onto Dorin's arms. He could feel its warmth, fresh and slick. _Why bring children on a raid?_ He wondered, angry as his hand was forced into violence. All must die.

*~*~*

“By all the gods...” Daenerys watched the carnage, helpless in the face of slaughter. It was far from her first taste of bloodshed but usually war was planned – armies aligned and met on equal ground. This was bloodshed. Like the _Dothraki_ hoards, the _Bears_ tore apart whatever they could reach, tossing the corpses into the water or thrashing them against the volcanic rock.

Jorah held her away from the edge with his hand wrapped firmly around her wrist. The _Bay of Ice_ was awash with _Wildling_ boats. Many had been shattered against the cliffs and broken into splinters where waves crashed into an ancient lava flow that slithered into the water like a poisonous serpent. Lifeless eyes stared at the last moments of sunset, bobbing briefly on the surface until they slid into the abyss. The beach was thick with Mormonts. They rumbled along it, shouting ancient war cries.

“Word of the Northern wars has spread,” Jorah whispered, tugging gently to ease his queen from the edge. “It's no secret that our fighting men are dead or too young to hold a sword. The Free Men probably wagered that they could take Bear Island and begin their migration beyond The Wall. They have been testing the waters of the North for many years – digging tunnels, raiding villages. Some have even been so bold as to scale the ruddy wall itself. If they intend to have Bear Island they are wrong. We've held this post for more than a thousand years. We'd sooner let the Drowned God have it than those murdering savages.”

Daenerys rarely heard Ser Jorah speak with unbridled hate. It sounded sour on his lips. If it weren't for her pale hand in his he'd be over the cliff, thrusting himself into the water to tear down the _Wildlings_.

“There are so many of them.” The boats trailed all the way to the silver curve of land. It wasn't a raid – this was a full scale invasion. “Your people will suffocate under those numbers.”

“You have not seen a Mormont fight.”

“I have...” She eyed her knight.

“I am not a good example, Your Grace. Those she-bears down there, they'd tear apart the rock itself to protect their village. The _Dothraki_ are dangerous,” he continued, “the North is _savage_. You cannot imagine...” he trailed off. Jorah was shocked by the brutality it could unleash if forced. “We must leave. If the Wildlings breech the beach they may find the caves where we're hiding. They'll not spare a Southern queen. You'll be raped and butchered where you stand. That is the Wildling way.” He itched to fight alongside his kin. Jorah had unfinished business with the free men beyond _The Wall_.

*~*~*

The bloodshed permeated the cave, echoing up the walls of the cliff. It thrummed in the background as Jorah and Daenerys collected their things and headed out into the snow. They emerged to the unmistakable cry of a dragon. _Drogon_ had abandoned his hide and taken to the air. He circled the bloody bay, dipping toward the boats with his talons scraping their hulls.

“Daenerys...” Jorah whispered in alarm, as she pushed by him to scream _Drogon's_ name. It was too late. The dragon was loose on the air.

###  **THE HOUSE OF BLACK AND WHITE**

###  **BRAAVOS – ESSOS**

The Waif's stick left an assortment of demonic marks festering in Arya's skin. They used to burn but Arya was beyond the common taste of pain. Pain was for men with names. Instead she felt the Waif's fury. Her jealousy. The seething rage. Hate. Envy. Fear... The stick beat against her face until Arya was thrown from their sparring mat onto the stone. She lay there, turning her cheek to the cool touch of marble that reminded her of ice. She longed for those white obliques, jutting between forests in the North. She could almost hear the crunch of hooves sinking through them as hunting parties returned. Sometimes she ran with her wolf with Nymeria's paws dancing over the surface like a ghost.

Arya opened her eyes. Smoke from the oil lamps had turned the ceiling black over the centuries. Now it resembled a cave or the throat of a slain god.

“A girl is getting faster,” Jaqen H'ghar noted, much later.

Arya approached him barefoot. Half her face was darkened like the doors. One black, one white. One in shadow and the other facing the sun. She had meant to ask if they represented the full spectrum of the gods or the embodiment of deception. Perhaps that was the same thing. Arya had long suspected that there were no gods at all.

“Who is she?” Arya asked, licking dried blood from her lips.

“No one at all...” he replied dutifully.

Jaqen H'ghar was not the same as the other Faceless Men. When he spoke there was an edge to his answers that suggested he might share more with Arya one day. Either Jaqen did not know what motived the Waif or he chose not to say.

“A girl has a name,” he offered instead, turning to Arya.

“A girl is no one-” she started to reply when she was stopped by the back of his hand. Interesting, she thought, at the sting. “A girl is Arya Stark...” This time he smiled and then dipped his head in the slightest of nods. _Today I am Arya._

“A name has been given the gods,” he continued, leading her over to a table. A Valyrian sword lay upon it, glistening in the candlelight. Jaqen H'ghar had left it laying on folds of silk, cushioned like a king. He watched Arya reach toward it and run her tiny fingertips over the length of the metal. She had an eye for weapons, revelling in their violence. Arya lacked the temperament for an assassin. Violence was personal to her as it had been to him. Maybe it still was.

“Are you leaving,” she asked, “to take the name?”

“This name belongs to Arya Stark.”

Arya felt her heart fall through the floor. He was giving her a name – her first kill. Jaqen wasn't giving it to a nameless envoy of their order, he was giving it to _her_. “I thought a girl wasn't ready yet...”

“No one said anything about being ready. The name is still yours.”

Arya's momentary thrill gave way to something else. “Wait – are you sending me away?” Perhaps they were throwing her out of the order.

Jaqen H'ghar turned so that he could rest against the table. For a moment the face he had chosen was unguarded. Behind the flap of skin Arya glimpsed something of the man. “Yes. Arya Stark must be sent away. The name is not in Braavos.”

“You know what I mean...”

“A man knows what a girl means. Take the name.” In his palm sat a single coin. Arya took it, thumbing the silver edge.

*~*~*

_Needle_ slid from its hiding place with a shower of chalk dust. Arya rested its sharp edge on her palm. Memories flooded back as she let the weight shift on her skin. She could see her brother's kind brown eyes as he bestowed it upon her. Bastard or not, he was  _brother_ to her. Jon knew that she was never going to be one of the Northern ladies, locked in a castle with a crown. She was a wolf and he gave her fangs.

_The House of Black and White_ loomed behind her tiny figure. It was cold, merciless like the assassins' creed within. Jaqen watched from the door, blending in against the  _Weirwood._ She wondered if he had memories too. If he hid things beneath the  _Braavosi_ stones or perhaps lowered them into the depths of the lake where they'd never be found.

Arya finally stood. She turned to Jaqen and the two of them watched each other. Arya heard the lagoon lap at the steps and the  _Shivering Sea_ roll beyond, beckoning her. A girl was going home. When she turned back, Jaqen was gone.

###  **BEAR ISLAND – BAY OF ICE**

Fire chased the waves across the bay. Steam lifted in a mist as the dragon passed, blowing onto the charred boats. Water lapped over their sides, flooding them until the tide pushed what was left into the rocks where they jammed between boulders. _Everyone_ fled from the screeching dragon as it lay waste to the shore. The Mormonts retreated into the cliffs while some of the invaders tried to push their boats back out into the water only to find a wall of flame. Everything burned.

Dragonglass dripped down the cave wall beside Dorin. He shuffled away from the red glow that sagged into tear drops. Like the innards of an angry mountain, it bled from the cliffs all the way along the crescent bay where the dragon had unleashed its fury.

He could see the creature as it headed into deeper water to burn the rest of the boats. They lit up the bay, drifting idly as if they were stars fading before the dawn. Eventually they sank into the frigid water. Wailing filled the air. The Bears crept out, wary of the shadow playing in the afternoon light. Some of the _Wildlings_ had survived. They reached up, clutching at anything that moved. An old woman caught her claws in his cloak. Dorin turned on her, staring back at her glassy eyes. Blind. She hissed at him – filthy words in a foreign tongue. A wave hit her back and she was dragged into oblivion.

The dragon circled the water, climbing higher in the wind. The _Mormonts_ watched from the beach, whispering the old songs amongst themselves. This was the second dragon in as many months to stain the skies of the North. _Winterfell's_ dragon has been spotted over the water before vanishing into the _Lands of Always Winter_. The few who refused to believe would be turned now. Burning bodies could not be dismissed as easily as a shadow.

Dorin left the massacre on the beach and headed into the cliffs. Filthy smoke was blown over the rock making him choke. The stench of burning bodies was unbearable. He pulled the furs across his face and climbed.

He emerged within sight of the _Targaryen_ and Jorah. Blood dripped fresh off his weapons as he crossed the snow and stopped in front of them. “You mustn't call for it...” he warned, as the silver haired woman cried out to her dragon. “Or they'll hear you on the beach.”

“I don't understand...” Daenerys insisted. “I didn't...”

“Only the gods know the will of a dragon,” Dorin assured her. “Be glad of it. That creature saved the island, even if the people fear it.” Dorin's gaze came to settle on Jorah. “Did you find them on the far side of the world? The dragon eggs of Westeros were worthless ornaments in the king's chamber.”

“They were a gift to the queen on her wedding,” Jorah replied, letting Daenerys go. She broke away from him and sat beneath the _Weirwood_ tree, resting against its thick roots to watch _Drogon's_ shadow in the distance. “Illyrio of Pentos brought them. Dorin, I can see you know more... Where did Illyrio get the eggs?”

“I only know what your father told me,” Dorin let his weapons fall into the snow. There was no need of them. Whatever wasn't dead would soon belong to the sea.

“Were they stolen from Asshai? Did Illyrio travel there – did my fa-” Jorah paused when Dorin held up his hands in a bid to stop wild guesses spilling forth.

“The eggs were stolen,” Dorin admitted, “from the crypts of _Winterfell_.”

“What...”

“Mance Rayder – the Free Folk call him, 'The King Beyond The Wall'. Well, your father caught him breach The Wall several times, vanishing South. A while later he'd return, as though he'd been lookin' for something. Dacey -”

“Dacey...?” Jorah shifted in alarm.

“She wasn't allowed t' join the Night's Watch so your father had her follow that Wildling King all the way to Winterfell where he broke into the crypts. Spent weeks down there, shuffling about among them corpses until he returned, same as, empted handed. Dacey went back to that dead place and found the eggs.”

Daenerys interrupted, “My dragons come from the North?”

“Aye, they do.” Dorin spared a moment to search the skies. The beast was heading toward _Bear Island_. “Laid in miserable depths of Winterfell. S'no place to raise a dragon.”

*~*~*

As soon as _Drogon_ landed, Daenerys and Jorah clambered aboard, lashing their things to the harness before Daenerys ordered him to fly. The shore had been set alight where Mormonts piled the bodies of the dead while the cliff glowed wherever _Drogon's_ flame had touched. Jorah leaned around a curved spike to watch it recede into the darkness.

Jorah could not shake the feeling that they would be back this way again. Daenerys must have felt it too, for she looked over her shoulder until _Bear Island_ was a smudge in the night.

Water was replaced by snow. The desolate landscape of the North reflected the moon which had lifted high enough to cast shadows on the flats. Daenerys was shaken. There was a tremble in her hand where she clutched the saddle. Her pale flesh was crisp under the moonlight, as though she were made of ice.

“It's not the first time Drogon has gone off on his own like that...”

“Headed into battle without your command?” Jorah asked, she nodded.

“What's to stop him burning Braavos to the ground?”

“Nothing, Your Grace,” Jorah admitted. “For what comfort it is worth, I do not believe he will.”

He queen turned, _Valyrian_ eyes upon his. “Why is that, Ser? You remember the beach in the Southern waters. Dozens of my men were turned to ash... I screamed and screamed but he would not stop. We nearly died in those waters, you and I, with blood in the waves.”

What could he say? _Drogon_ did as he pleased. “It will take time,” was all he could offer. “The masters of Old Valyria spent many years training their dragons. Yours have had to learn in the world.”

And what had she taught them? Daenerys wondered. She'd locked them in a dungeon, alone in the dark. They'd been taught pain, vengeance, hunger and fear. “Neither of us have _years_ , Ser Jorah. There is more than one war coming to meet us.”

“We will find out soon enough... Before the sun sets on another day, we'll be in Braavosi skies. If the city burns then it _burns_ , Your Grace. You have come too far to falter before the start.”

“I'll not falter,” she assured her knight. Her face may as well have been steel. It did not flinch as it faced the wind and _Narrow Sea_ parting the lands.

*~*~*

Dorin paused the door of his cabin. Ajar, a beam of light cut through onto the snow beside him. He could hear something shuffle about inside. Not an animal. They did not waste moments of their lives lighting lamps. The Bear took a measured step back before throwing his weight forward, kicking in his own door. The wood slammed against the wall. Half the cabin shook with it. The frail wisp of a man cowering over Dorin's desk dropped his quill in fright, sending ink all over the room.

A slight figure with barely a scrap of meat to cover his bones, startled badly. “Wait, wait, wait, wait!” was all he managed to gargle, as Dorin's hand took hold of his bony shoulders and lifted him clear out of the chair.

_Wildling shit!_ The audacity to make himself at home! He threw it to the floor where it crawled toward the fire. 

“Oh gods! Please! Wait!” The _Wildling_ protested feverishly in the _Common Tongue_. “I am a maester of the Citadel – under their protection! A maester!”

“You ruddy are not,” Dorin assured him, briefly hunting for a chain. The man wore nothing but the garb of a regular _Wildling_. “I ought to throw your corpse in the bay with the rest.”

The man's protests continued, repeated over and over until they became a mantra. “The guild at Old Town sent me. Ask them if you wish. I am no Wildling!”

Checking would take weeks. Dorin doubted that they had hours before another raid was on their shore.

“What maester lives beyond The Wall?” Dorin asked, selecting a hunting knife from the wall.

The maester fixated on the curved blade and the serrations in the metal. It was a crude thing – a brutal end if it was to be his. “I seek only the same as you,” he implored the Bear. “To stop the war that is coming. The great war. The last war. The war before the night.”

Dorin let him speak.

“I was invited under the protection of the King Beyond The Wall, Mance Rayder, he went by, until a Red Witch of R'hllor burned him. He wanted to bring his people South, Old Town was considering a motion of sanctuary in exchange for knowledge. A man of Bear Island, you imagine yourself a Northerner. You cannot grasp _North_. I have seen lands beyond the ice. Cities in the snow... They wake.”

“Liar,” Dorin said calmly. “Wildlings are nothing but thieves an' murders. They want t' live up there in tha' shit fuck of a place – it is their business. The moment they set foot beyond The Wall they'll find themselves on pyres. We'll make white ash out o' their bones.”

The maester shook his head as if all the weight of civilisation had fallen upon it. “You do not understand. The Free Folk are not invading, they are fleeing. I have devoted my life to the deepest pits of history and things that crawled in the depths of Winter have returned. I have run from them. Seen their sapphire eyes. Their pale, rotten flesh. Listened to the step of dead horses and crack of their war cry.  _'The North Remembers'_ so go your words but the North has forgotten. In two days they'll be at The Bridge of Bones where the undead will flood into the world of the living. I came all this way to warn you. I brought this...”

He shuffled about in his rags and withdrew a small medicine bottle. Inside sloshed the unmistakable iridescent green of  _Wildfire_ .

###  **WINTERFELL – THE NORTH**

###  **280 AC**

It was too warm for Dacey. Anything further than _Deepwood Motte_ was considered 'South' and vulgar. It was in the air – water rather than ice. The evenings were damp and choked with mist and the stink of _Pierwood_ smoke. A weed – the thin trees plagued the surrounding mountains with their golden crowns and supple trunks. They bent at the faintest breeze and found themselves a stable in the _Winterfell_ fires. They burned white, crackling furiously.

Dacey made no fire. Lurking at the cusp of the _Godswood_ , she dug herself a pit of snow and waited. This side of the castle was a sad sprawl of ancient stone, mostly overgrown. The ground was unnaturally warm, melting the ice around a pool of rocks and black water where bloodied leaves floated aimlessly. She could hear the creek of the _Weirwood_ , groaning with age. It sounded exactly like the one on _Bear Island_. There was a feast raging in the castle. News of a baby princess had bled into the North. The Dornish horsemen pissed near the main gate, swigging ale and singing vulgar songs about _Nymeria_.

There. At the far edge of the _Godswood_ Dacey saw a shadow stir. The _Wildling_ King inched out of the forest and crossed the snow as though it were a sheet of rock. Envy snapped through her. However much hate she bore those creatures there was no escaping their skill. She had expected him to breech the castle through the servant's entrance but he diverted at the last moment, curving into the mess of buildings marking the tombs. Dacey lifted her head, watching the man duck down the stairs, vanishing.

“Bastard...!” She growled, sitting up. Dacey ran her hand through her long, dark hair – knocking a fresh dusting of snow from it. There was no choice but to follow him into the crypts.

Treacherous, moss-laden steps slid under her boots. Most were broken apart by the constant melt water, threatening to send her tumbling into the abyss with every hesitant step. She dared not light a torch. Weeks spent in the innards of _The Nightfort_ had taught her to navigate the dark. It was a comfort, to be blind to the horrors of the world.

With one hand on the wall, she pushed deeper, listening for the _Wildling._ Flames from his torch created a glow ahead. It was a faint halo of light coming from behind a curtain of creeper vines that favoured caves in the North. They grew thick in the _Winterfell_ crypts, feeding off the steam that seemed to saturate the air as if the whole place had been built on the heart of fire. Carefully, she pushed the soft vines aside and craned her head.

The _Wildling_ crouched behind one of the oldest tombs. Whichever Stark that laid here had long ago turned to dust inside his stone prison. A crunch of rock was followed by a sharp _crack_ as he removed one of the tiles from the wall. He'd done this before, Dacey could tell by his purposeful movements. _Chip. Chip. Slide._ More tiles were removed until an entrance large enough to crawl through gaped in front. The _Wildling_ picked up his torch and shuffled into the hole leaving her in darkness once more.

Dacey waited ten minutes before doing the same, silently lowering herself into the abyss. Her feet hit the ground after a short drop, landing in a crouch with her hands splayed on the wet floor. The room beneath was flooded in several inches of water. Despite the blackness surrounding her, she could feel the walls of the tunnel close by. The glow of his torch flickered around the next bend. She made a step toward it, failing to see the shadow that attacked from behind.

Dacey was thrown against the wall, hitting her her head before sliding into the water. The _Wildling_ grabbed her cloak and dragged her along the tunnel. Her ears rang from the impact. She struggled against the rush of water, flailing as the shock wore off. They reached the second room where he tossed her roughly across the floor. In the sudden light Dacey could see his wild complexion and the bluest eyes ever set into flesh.

“Who are you?” he hissed at her in broken _Common Tongue_. “Why do you follow?”

Blood dripped from a cut above her eye. Dacey used the wall to drag herself onto her feet. He was taller than her, draped in furs and leather that had been worn to scraps from surviving in the wilderness. Despite months or hard living there was a finer edge to his features, something found among the high born, even those that dwell beyond _The Wall._ Rings weighed down his fingers while stark tattoos twisted up his skin. Among the fang and claw were runes of the _First Men._

“I am no one,” Dacey assured him, “but you are the King Beyond the Wall.”

“Then you know better than to follow me.”

Dacey straightened her cloak leisurely, ghosting her palm across the hilt of her sword in threat. “I could kill you now,” Dacey continued. The longer she looked at him, the more his fearsome image corroded. He was tired, carrying injuries of the body and soul. “Your people would disband leaving the North safe – for a time, at least.”

He _laughed_. “You know nothing,” he assured her, stalking closer. “The Free Folk are more than one man. Without me thousands of panicked tribes 'll rush into your North.” He considered saying more but shrugged his thoughts off. What was the point? No one would believe what he had seen, lurking in the snow. Who could? Mance sighed deeply before drawing his sword. It left its sheath with a hiss. Dacey retreated until her back hit the crypt wall. “I cannot let you leave,” he explained, approaching.

Dacey countered by drawing her sword in kind. It was thick and heavy – a man's sword. “I can't allow you to kill me.”

For a moment, Mance Rayder smirked. “So be it,” he replied, before their swords clashed.

The dance of iron echoed through the catacombs. Despite his size, the _Wildling_ king was fast, meeting her strikes and pushing Dacey away, edging her around the room. She ducked when his blade found stone. Mance reached out, grabbed her cloak and yanked her backwards. For the second time Dacey found herself staring up at those blue eyes only this time they were cold with determination. She lifted her sword, holding it horizontally in front of her face with the dull edge of the blade pressed to her palm. Metal collided. Dacey groaned, taking the weight of his strike. She felt it push her into the ground until she thought the tomb might suck her into its depths.

“What are you looking for?” she asked again, growling as she kicked him sharply in the stomach. The force threw him off and a moment later she was back, spinning her sword with an arch of her bloodied eybrow. There was a solid plinth of rock between them. Age had obscured the lettering at its base but she could read the inscription. “Brandon Stark – the Shipwright... Odd choice of crypt to loot,” she observed, circling so that the stone monument remained between their swords. “An empty room – not a bone in sight.” Even as Dacey said the words she realised her error. The room was bare but it was hot. Steam seeped through cracks in the floor – fed from something deeper under _Winterfell_. “You're not here for bones of a Stark...”

“No... I'm not.” Mance Rayder closed in. The Northern woman was distracted by her own curiosity. He used it against her, drawing her in.

“You are a long way from home,” Dacey's eyes flicked to the edges of the room, searching. He was prying apart the enormous granite cover stones. “If you are seeking treasure I hate to disappoint you. The Starks are famously poor.”

“Depends on your definition of treasure,” Mance assured her. He was done playing with the woman. Using the wall as a brace, he pushed off in a lunge. They met at the edge of a blade, the side of which caught Dacey through her furs. She grit her teeth at the tear of flesh, striking back.

A seething slash of swords hit the stone slabs, dragging over them in a blaze of sparks. Neither noticed as one was displaced, cracking in half. One side fell away leaving a hole in the floor. Mance's torch was the only light in the room. Dacey felt the heat of the flame as they rolled toward it. Absently she reached until her fingers found the smooth wood. She brought it up, slashing the flame across his face. That sent the _Wildling_ flying away from her, dropping his sword as his flesh reeled at the heat.

“What part of the North are you from?” he hissed in her direction, nursing his burned flesh. Dacey had his sword, one in each hand. She let him see the bear pummel on the top of her sword. “Fucking bear...”

“Aye, fucking bear,” she assured him, pointing both swords toward his person. The torch burned beside her on the ground, lighting her hard features from below as if she were a cliff perched above the bay. “What are you looking for?”

Mance drew a pair of tapered daggers from his boots instead, refusing to bow to her will. He ran at her again, ducking straight to the stone while her swords slashed overhead. Her blood dripped as she turned, spraying out like the swirl on one of her mother's tapestries. Dacey fell to her knees and the two of them collided.

Weapons hit the floor. Fur smothered Dacey. It was soft against her face and smelled of pine forests. She gasped, arching her back against Mance Rayder's weight. Noses brushed and those eyes were on her again. There was something about them that she couldn't shake. _Ice._

They weren't fighting.

Mance's strength failed. Dacey rolled them over until she was bearing down on him, a sword at his chest. She could feel his heart through the leather, pounding from the fray. He reached up, taking a fist full of her hair then he dragged her down with a surge of pain before cracked lips found hers.

###  **BEAR ISLAND – BAY OF ICE**

Dorin tied the maester to his cabin wall. _'Burn the bodies. Burn the bodies...'_ The old fool whispered to himself, tearing through some old bread. The _Wildling_ corpses were already burning, set alight by the dragon. Leaving the maester to his ramblings, Dorin slipped away into the wood, circling around behind a distinctive boulder shaped in the rough form of a wolf. He knelt in the snow and hacked at it with his axe until the iron collided with steel.

Beneath the snow lay an old trunk buried by Jeor Mormont. It still bore his name, etched elegantly across the bindings. Taking a heart shaped key from his belt, Dorin opened the trunk, pushing its heavy lit off. He fell back onto his calves at the sight. Perched on velvet, the dragon egg shimmered like one of the snowflakes falling around him. Unlike the others he had seen, this one's surface was perfectly smooth. _A pearl of fire_ , Jeor had called it, upon laying it in the trunk. It was their insurance if the Targaryens failed. Without dragons the North was lost to the depths of Winter.

He stared at the egg for some time before burying it in the snow.

###  **THE IRON BANK**

###  **BRAAVOS – ESSOS**

Neither Tyrion nor Varys bothered to sit. Upon entering the inner sanctum they found the bankers aligned at their marble alter, bald heads shining in the light.

“The Iron Bank wishes to thank you for the courtesy that you have bestowed upon us with your visit prior to the planned invasion of Westeros.”

Varys dutifully nodded at the pause in Tycho's words.

“That said, we cannot acknowledge the validity of Daenerys Targaryen's rule without her presence, as is our custom. Has your sovereign arrived in Braavos?” When the Lannister shook his head, Tycho continued. “Then it is our duty to act in accordance with the current reign of Westeros.”

“If I may-” Varys attempted to interrupt but he was stopped by the banker.

“However, given the seriousness of the proposal put forward, we have decided to allow your queen one day to present herself to our council during which time we will hold Tyrion Lannister as guarantee on our accounts. If Daenerys fails to arrive, Tyrion Lannister will be traded to the Crown in exchange for the debts that they owe. You, Varys, are free to stay or leave at you wish.”

With one subtle nod of his moon-head, guards emerged to seize Tyrion, dragging him out of the cavernous room leaving Varys with the floor.

“Do you accept our offer?”

Unmoved, Varys reciprocated with a bow of his own.

 


	48. Death of a Sealord

Bran's eyes rolled backwards into his skull like twin moons, pale and featureless. He twitched. Arched. Straining against the roots which twisted around his wrists, seeking him out before strengthening their hold as Bran gripped the _Weirwood_ tree. Images flashed across his vision chased by sounds which were out of step. A scream before the blade. Ice cracking. Wolves howling at the burnt remnants of a city. Then came the taste of salt as drowned men pulled Bran beneath the waves with their sodden, withered flesh until he was overwhelmed by the suffocating stew of incense. It always ended there – a vision he could not push past. Last time he'd fled the words sinking in the smoke. Now Bran reached forward with his mind, parting the curls of ash to find dancing flames – a bridge through time.

The _when_ and _where_ were beyond his skill but Bran had heard enough stories from the East to guess the _who._

A Red Priest from the ancient _R'hllor_ religion towered by the fire. An old man, he was draped in folds of red and ochre silk in some vain attempt to mimic the flames he worshipped. Held captive beneath the pastel sandstone wall behind was a child, cowering at the priest's feet. Tied to a cart, the young boy was terrified. His wild eyes were unable to settle between the fire and the priest while blood stained his tattered tunic centred at his crotch and continued to drip down his leg onto the dirt covering the street.

The priest's words scratched at the air. Their foreign tongue formed a spell – magic from the far edge of the world. _Asshai_ , thought Bran. His maester in _Winterfell_ had said it was the heart of such things. Was this _Asshai_? No. He looked closer at the pale wall and the shadows dancing across it. All Bran knew of _Asshai_ was its oily, black buildings that sucked fire from the air. _Liquid dragons frozen in flame, burned and melted in horror and ash._ He longed to see them through the trees if their roots reached that far.

Crawling as far forward as his chains would allow, the child bowed his head before the wall of fire. The heat licked his cheeks as he whispered his own words – asking something of the gods, if they were there.

“Let me live...” The boy murmured, fearful of the priest as the gruesome remains of his parts were tossed into the flame. Blood leaked from his wound. Part of him became ash. The smoke thickened. “Let me live...”

Transfixed by the boy's suffering, Bran found himself replying, _“You'll outlive them all.”_

Hearing words crackle out of the flames, the boy shifted backwards, aghast. The Priest heard only the fire and continued with his rantings.

 _He can hear me..._ Bran thought, filled with sudden urgency. He was only a child at the edge of the world but if he could warn at least one soul about the wars to come, they all might be saved. Their fate waiting in the ice felt insurmountable. How could they win, with the _Whitewalkers_ encroaching on _The Wall_ and Winter descending? The Northern armies were scattered or pawns of the South and the _Wildlings_ walked with the dead.

“ _They're coming!”_ Bran shouted, overwhelmed with panic. _“They're coming with the Winter. Dead men and their king. Burn it all.”_

Everything vanished. Bran awoke to Bloodraven's cold eyes.

*~*~*

Varys stared at the flames dancing inside one of the metal torches strapped to the wall of the _Iron Bank's_ courtyard. Its lattice prison had blackened with the burden but they could not keep the voices in his head at bay. Like a song, they whispered, over and over. _'They're coming. They're coming. They're coming...'_ Varys lived his life to that clock, ticking away to some terrible end. All he had to cling to was the promise of fire. What was a dragon but fire formed into flesh...

Eventually he relinquished the corso and its filtered light to return to the _Purple Harbour_. Their ship lulled against the half-tide, barely brushing the dock.

“Missandei!” he greeted, dipping his head as he approached. She alighted the ship, joining him on the deck with a respective bow, letting her robes pool on the wood.

“Where is Tyrion?” she asked, eyeing the empty dock behind.

“Our new friends have decided to hold him as collateral, in case our mythical queen remains somewhat of a legend.” Missandei seemed alarmed by his words but Varys quickly quietened her. “Do not worry. The Iron Bank are perfectly civilised traders. I'd have been insulted if they didn't take something from us as insurance. It shows they are taking our stance seriously. Has there been any word from Grey Worm?”

“None...” she replied. “We've sent many ravens but as yet our messages go unanswered. There are storms in the Southern waters or so I am told. The ravens take shelter.”

Missandei leaned against the rail of the ship. Varys thought that there was something different about her until he realised that she had re-braided her hair and donned the more regal of her gowns. It was the colour of cinnamon save for the silver dragon broach holding up one shoulder strap. _She waits her queen,_ Varys smiled lightly.

“What if she does not come?”

“Then the bank will ransom Tyrion to his sister for a great deal of gold, I imagine.”

“I'll not let you!” she immediately insisted, railing against the wind to confront him.

“Fear not, child. He's the only Lannister that I've grown fond of. Believe me, they're not easy to garner affection for. Queen or no queen, we still have a dragon. I'd wager by the way he's wriggling around under that sail, he's getting quite restless.”

Missandei watched the sheet billow with the wind. Beneath was a dragon the colour of sea-grass. Her eyes lingered on the beast.

“Has he been like that for long?” Varys added, as the creature's tail swished across the front of the boat, knocking free a rain of barnacles. They plopped into the water, tumbling into the depths.

“Since you went in. I was only a few moments behind but the guards would not allow me to pass.”

The sun was bothering Varys. Beads of sweat formed on his bare scalp, partnering up before slipping over the curve and running down his neck where they left a dark stain in the silk. He wiped them away but no sooner had he removed them, more fell. “Let's wait for their decision below deck, shall we?”

*~*~*

_An old wooden door, dusted in salt with a tangled lemon tree growing up the wall beside. Blood appeared between the cracks, seeping from within. It was thick, dark and smoked as Daenerys pushed against it. More flowed over the stone beneath. She beat the door under her fists were covered in red. Finally, the lock clicked. Willem Darry opened the door. He is dead. Eyes blue. A bear pin on his chest. Pine smoke suffocates her throat, choking her. She stumbles back, falling into the water. Cold hands grabbed her, dragging her below._

_In the water there was only one dream. A face waited, frozen as if in ice – except it wasn't. She reached out, pressing her hand against the gnarled folds of skin. Sap. Sticky and wretched as it burned her flesh._

Daenerys flew into consciousness, straining against the saddle. She was high above the world.

“Easy...” A firm hand drew her back. Jorah was there. His sand-coloured hair caught in the sun. “Braavos, Your Grace.”

She leaned to the side, catching a glimpse of the shattered harbour below. It looked like a dragon egg had been smashed open in the water and left to its grave.

###  **NIGHTFORT – THE NORTH**

Cub lifted his torch. The flames bent away from the _Weirwood_ , repelled by the magic which bound the _Black Gate_ in an eternal scream. In the silence of the tunnel, Cub could hear its wailing in his mind, howling like a wolf to the moon. He didn't trust it. Magic. There were two sides to every sword and magic was a blade freed from its hilt with an invisible hand wrapped around the steel. He preferred to know his enemy – look into their eyes... This pale face, he looked at it, pacing up and down, eyeing it from every angle. Frost gathered on the wood. Winter deepened beyond.

###  **THE IRON BANK**

###  **BRAAVOS – ESSOS**

Varys was right. A few hours later, the dragon's hunger drew it from slumber. Lifting its head, the creature snapped at the sail which was caught in a ridge horns. _Rhaegal_ turned his snout, inspecting the air. He could smell gulls wandering by and the mess of humans, seething between buildings. His nostrils flared. Smoke fizzled from the tear-shaped holes.

The sailors shrieked as the dragon threw the sail off and stretched its wings, unfurling them so that they brushed against the deck. In their secluded _Purple Harbour_ , it was only the bank's guards that saw the monster emerge from the ship's heart like some giant, green jungle plant. Forgetting their duty, the _Braavosi_ men dropped their weapons and fled up the marble steps into the bank, slamming the doors shut.

“Well, now is as good a time as any...” Varys said calmly, appearing on deck. He watched proceedings as though they were his design and not merely a prelude to chaos.

“Time for _what_?” Missandei asked, standing behind the eunuch as bits of rope were thrown across the deck. The heavy coils smashed at her feet, rousing the rest of the crew.

“To open a trade with the bankers of Braavos. Reality tends to make even the most timid of investors more amenable.” Varys had a different view on 'trade'. The free cities were fond of coin, Varys preferred the more valuable commodity of _fear._

Predictably _Rhaegal_ launched himself from the craft rather awkwardly. He wasn't the most graceful of beasts but what he lacked in style he made up for in presence. It was as though he'd been torn from the water and granted wings, slithering about in the air with his tail snaking behind. He was lean from a diet of gulls and fish but once they landed in _Westeros_ , gorging on the spoils of battle, Varys was certain that he would grow.

After a few cumbersome tumbles in the air, Varys had to laugh when the dragon chose to perch on the glass dome of the _Iron Bank_. Sliding down the pinnacle of their architectural refinement, his claws left grooves in the glass and stained the air with an horrendous screech. High enough to attract attention, the _Braavosi_ finally noticed the monster in their skies. Screams followed, spilling through the streets like _Wildfire_. All Varys could do was smile as panic ensued.

*~*~*

Tyrion hit the floor, lifting his arms above his head in a weak grasp for protection. His guards were cowering on the ground beside, terrified of the dragon dancing above them on the dome. He could hear the glass straining under the weight as the colossus stalked around, trying to find purchase. Cracks expanded, joining up – forming deeper ravines in the glass.

Any moment now...

Like a bubble in the wind, the dome disintegrated. Its glass exploded, raining down over them in a violent hail. Bits of it struck the stone beside Tyrion's head. All he could do was curl into a ball and pray to whatever gods he had left to spare him death.

A cleave of glass went through his forearm, slicing apart his meat. He felt nothing as he stared at his bone, buried in slaughtered flesh. The guards faired worse, as was morbidly demonstrated by a head rolling away to the side and a pool of blood filling the centre of the room. The corpse twitched while Tyrion crawled away from the scarlet tide. Clutching his arm, he managed to avoid _Rhaegal_ landing inside the _Iron Bank_.

Startled, the dragon shook off a dusting of glass and twisted around, knocking over everything that wasn't part of the wall as his massive wings and tail struggled to fit inside the building. Tyrion collapsed behind a pillar, groaning at a wave of dizziness. He was losing blood fast. His thoughts were consumed by the sound of a dragon panting in succession with his own, failing breath.

*~*~*

“By the gods...” Daenerys pointed to the horror below. Writhing about in the heart of the largest building in _Braavos_ was one of her dragons.

“Rhaegal!” Jorah yelled sharply. His cry was instantly drowned by _Drogon_ whose call split the air, ringing the glass of every window in the city. His brother looked up, catching sight of the shadow in the sky before replying with an excited screech. “We better hang on to something...” Jorah lurched, wrapping his arms around the leather straps. Daenerys did the same and a moment later, _Drogon_ tilted sharply, losing altitude.

Blankets slid off into the wind. Daenerys groaned as her weight made the leather straps bite into her flesh. _Drogon_ tumbled toward the ground, flipping over twice. Jorah had his eyes firmly slammed shut as his stomach turned. Ground. Sky. Water. Sky. The wall of the _Iron Bank_. _Drogon_ pulled up at the last moment, playing over the destroyed roof. _Rhaegal_ snapped irritably from the ruin, twisting his neck as his brother banked. He opened his throat, coughing up smoke before a torrent of fire smelted the walls on its way to the sky.

“Jorah – _look!_ ” Daenerys commanded, as a pillar of fire erupted out of the _Iron Bank_.

He obeyed, opening his eyes in time to see the small, golden-haired imp slumped behind a pillar, lifeless and drowning in his own blood.

*~*~*

Tycho Nestoris wandered dazed through the rubble. Painted with marble dust, he resembled one of the broken statues which lined the remains of the bank. Writhing behind a half-collapsed wall, he saw the emerald dragon in the flesh. The sound of its claws gouging ruts in the floor drew him closer. A morbid fascination brought him right to the door, forlorn on broken hinges. He stood at the archway with his dead guards in pieces on the floor. A dragon. Twyin's foolish notions of a cat-sized creature were severely misguided. This wasa ghost of _Old Valyria._ Despite its overwhelming size, the creature was immediately overshadowed by another beast, marauding through the skies of _Braavos_. Black, with red-tipped wings, _Drogon_ landed on the side of the _Iron Bank_ with such force he nearly knocked the wall through.

With one dragon perched above and the other, devouring the pieces of his guards, Queen Daenerys made her entrance across the ruined hall of the _Iron Bank._

Wrapped in Winter rags and trailed by a single, weathered knight, she had no place for false pretence – nor did she require it with the city cowered beneath her dragons.

*~*~*

_She is a tiny thing_ , Tycho remembered thinking of the Silver Queen, as she strolled barefoot on the sacred stones. The Targaryen was in disarray but the rags of battle suited her.

Daenerys' dragons had replaced the Sealord statues. Water flooded one end of the room while Tycho managed to summon his bankers into the hall to host the would be queen. Pale, insipid men, they trembled under the watchful eyes of the beasts as their ancestors had done. Their centuries of freedom balanced on a blade. With a word, this girl from the East could wipe _Braavos_ from the rock as if it had never been.

“Your Grace...” Tycho, who rarely tipped his head in the direction of a monarch, bowed. Her man loomed behind, nearly twice her size with a rough look about him. He reminded Tycho of someone else who shared thosestrange pale eyes.

The chairs laid broken on the ground so Daenerys stood before the council of bankers, a smirk tainting her lips. “I have heard frequent stories of Braavos,” she began, memorising their faces. These were the men who'd financed her father's murder. “You've been described as many things across the continent. Shrewd men. Clever men. King makers. Dragon slayers...” Her dragons shifted above, dislodging rubble. The sound was like thunder, rolling in from the sea. “Men.” That is all they were. To think that she had feared their wrath. They were small men once pried free of their stone cage. The soft body of a shellfish, defenceless. “There is a saying in this beautiful city, perhaps you know it... _Valar Morghulis._ ”

Tycho did not bite at her words.

“My offer is simple,” Daenerys continued, stalking across the stones, letting them all get a good look at her. “Support my reign in Westeros. Suffocate the Lannisters from the Iron Throne and the Free Cities of Essos will remain as they are.” She paused to wipe a smear of ash from her cheek. “I'll not return to your shores or come begging at your door like the false kings. I have no use for your coin, only your words.”

“Legitimacy...”

“You have until tomorrow to decide.”

Tycho collapsed into his throne when the queen departed. Her dragons left with her, tearing through the building and into the sky leaving the _Iron Bank_ torn open with bits of its walls crumbling into the street. The beasts fished in the thick waters of the lagoon before perching on the colossus of _Braavos,_ cleaning their wings.

“What do we do?” One of the bankers asked, nursing a bleeding head that had spoiled his robes.

“We make an investment,” Tycho replied, coolly.

*~*~*

Tyrion felt the gentle rock of the ship, caressing him from the world of darkness back to that of the living. His moment of peace was torn by sharp stabs of pain as Missandei tightened a bandage around his arm. He railed against it, twisting out of her hold.

“Steady...” she insisted, pressing him back down into the bed.

Tyrion's face transformed into a silent howl as he breathed through the torture. He was on board the queen's ship, tucked safely away in his cabin. Alive. That was a surprise. He'd thought for sure as his head slumped onto the marble that the gods were finally coming for him. Tyrion had even been at peace with the thought of sleep. There were worse deaths. He could have died in a hovel on the _Eyri_ e or been sliced into bits by a blunt _Hill Tribe_ axe with whatever was left mounted on stakes.

“Wine!” Tyrion reached mindlessly for it. His good hand was slapped away.

“No wine,” Missandei replied. “You're lucky to be breathing.”

“That's why there should be wine,” he insisted – and was thoroughly miserable until she relinquished her stance.

*~*~*

“Might I enquire where we are going, Your Grace?” Jorah asked, as Daenerys followed Varys through _Braavos_. The tiny streets were abandoned. Like ants before a storm, the _Braavosi_ had hidden themselves deep within the buildings as the dragon queen passed. With her monsters standing guard, the city was hers. It was Varys that answered.

“To see an old friend,” he slowed so that the three of them could walk abreast. “A very old friend,” Varys added, as they came upon a straggling lemon tree, growing in and out of a terrace wall.

Daenerys broke away from the men, striding up to the red door. It was beaten and decayed from its years but as her hands pressed against the wood the warmth of memory flooded through her.

Jorah exchanged a look with Varys as their queen lay against the door. Was this where his father had raised the young Targaryens? It must have been. What else could explain the way Daenreys plucked a lemon from the ground and cupped it in her hands, inhaling the citrus that filled her dreams, haunting her.

When they reached the door, Varys knocked and was greeted by a young usher draped in royal garb.

The stench of death hung around the room, dulling the lanterns. Several windows had been left open allowing withered leaves to collect inside the room, blown against the fireplace. Amongst their skeletons was a raven feather. Incense sticks burned on every surface creating a mist that lingered around their waists. An odd mixture of fire and sunlight turned it pink. Emerging from within was the shape of a chair and folded into its leather – an ancient man. His white beard grew into his lap matched only by a set of eyebrows that had knotted over themselves. Sagging flesh bore a thousand stories, tattooed across every surface so that the old man appeared as an offering to the sea.

Varys, in an unusual display of obedience, knelt at the foot of the chair in reverence.

The old man was a conglomeration of bone, skin and lengths of shell that hung from countless strings around his body. They were braided through his hair and sewn into his clothes.

“May I present Daenerys Targaryen,” Varys announced, lifting his head. “My queen, you stand before the Sealord of Braavos – the man who smuggled you out of Dragonstone and saved your life.”

The Sealord's features deformed, his shell adornments scratching together as he looked beyond the dragon child to the bear behind and _laughed_.

*~*~*

Tyrion had his wine, all three bottles of it and sat in a happy stupor on the edge of his bed where the sun was at its strongest. There wasn't much warmth left in the world so he took what he could, lounging in it. His quarters blurred, shifting in and out of focus, exactly as he liked it. The queen lived and from the stories Missandei told, the _Iron Bank_ would be mad to refuse her offer which meant one thing – he'd be returning to _Westeros_ to face his sister. Tyrion closed his eyes and found his brother's face. Yes, Jamie too. Where would he be but at her side? The three of them had been dancing around this confrontation since they were born. Without their father standing guard, one or all of them would die. Lions eating lions and he, the smallest.

He found himself fantasising about the end. Cersei would die first, split on the edge of a blade. The thought of his hand at the other end was ludicrous so he imagined Grey Worm or Daenerys' Northern lapdog pushing it through his sister's poisoned flesh. In a rage, Jamie is the the next to die. Cut down he expires on the same place as the Mad King. Their blood is black, like the ink of a banker's parchment. Or maybe it all ends in fire. The _Red Keep_ aflame. The lovers locked inside.

Ashamed, Tyrion wiped away the tears that had drowned his skin.

There was a certainty to these thoughts that he found difficult to face. Tommen, Tyrion thinks quietly, he'll save the boy.

*~*~*

“I remember you,” Daenerys said, seated on the ground in front of the Sealord flanked by Varys and Jorah. “Not your face,” she amended, “the sound of your shells. I hear it sometimes, at the edge of sleep. A scratching sound in the wind or amongst the grass.”

“You and your brother were very young,” the Sealord replied. His voice was that of a creaking ship, rolling in the water. “Babes – all eyes and toothless grins. Viserys used to sit with you by the water, barely big enough to wrap his chubby arms over your swaddle and tell you stories about Dragonstone he could scarce remember.”

Daenerys was still holding the lemon. She looked down at its mottled surface, running her fingertips over its imperfections. She didn't want to think about her brother or his golden corpse. “I dream of the house with the red door. Every time I do, I'm wakened by death.”

“We are all wakened by death,” he assured her. “You like the lemons?” Caught off guard, Daenerys smiled, nodding. “They were a gift to you, from Westeros, to remind you of your true home.”

“A gift from whom?” she asked.

A second figure revealed themselves, stepping out from the doorway at the far side of the room. Thick, plain with tanned skin and a mop of unruly black hair – the Martel prince bowed low to the Targaryen queen. “Family, as once was.”

“Daenerys, this is Prince Quentyn Martell,” the Sealord lifted his frail arm, beckoning the child forward out of the shadows. A few years the dragon's senior, they were both dangerously fresh in the world.

“I sailed across the Narrow Sea to bring greetings of Dorne, Your Grace,” Quentyn's tone was even and polite, sculpted by the diplomacy of his father, _“and to offer our condolences for your family.”_ He added, in practised Valyrian. Despite his care, the execution was all wrong.

“ _I thank you for the kindness,”_ she replied in kind. “I have often been told that your Aunt was very fine and well loved.”

“She was. Her brother too – for he is with her now, killed in a Lannister pit.”

Bound by history and hatred, Varys was right to seek this alliance out.

*~*~*

_Marriage_ Jorah thought, as he brooded in the corner, sword resting against his knee,  _that is what this prince seeks._ Of course he did. Daenerys was a young queen. She had married before and she would again. It should not bother the knight. These things were political not affairs of the heart.  _It did_ . It bothered him so much he had taken to fumbling his father's silver pin, warming it in his palm as he flipped it over and over until he dropped it with such force that the conversation in the room died a moment.

Prince Quentyn spent most of his time buried in council with Varys. The spider had taken him to one of the open windows to talk. They lingered in the sunlight with stray, dry leaves catching in the Dornish man's hair.

Daenerys remained knelt on the floor at the Sealord's feet, whispering prayers of some kind. When she was done, he shifted his broken body forward and placed his bony hand on her head, murmuring prayers of his own.

There were touches of his father around the house. The foolish old man had spent years here, guarding the dragons. The more he lingered in those thoughts, he realised he knew nothing at all about his father, the bear who spent his last years stalking about on a barren wall of ice had spent his time playing politics with the world. Jorah shook his head. Without meaning to, he now did the same thing. Even the chair he occupied had once housed Jeor as he read stories by the fire.

A string of shells shattered on the ground.

The room stopped, all eyes upon the queen. Slumped in front of her, the old Sealord had expired. His limbs laid limp, already bone-like in their pale skin. His whispers were finished.

*~*~*

Tyrion stumbled onto the deck. Swaying awkwardly, he made his way from door to rail, falling against each one until his face met the cold wind. It shocked him sober, tearing open his eyes until they settled on the ruin of the _Iron Bank_. A building that had this morning been an impenetrable fortress to their passage to _Westeros_ had been revealed as nothing more than stone. Daenerys was making good on her promise to break the wheel. He could only hope that whatever emerged from her new world was worth it.

A small figure scrambled over the marble steps. Tyrion leaned closer, tilting dangerously over the rail. “What is that?” he asked.

Missandei, who was always in his shadow, turned her eye on the building. “A child.”

Tyrion shook his head. “No...” he muttered, gripping the rail. “No, I know that face.”

“Tyrion – wait! Come back! You're – look at the state of you... You can barely walk. Tyrion!”

Tyrion was already on the walkway, gripping the rope as he stumbled down onto the wharf. The child was not far, traversing boulders of marble thrown out from the destruction of the _Iron Bank_. Older, yes, a little taller with boyish hair and rough clothes but there was no hiding the Stark in her. “M'lady!” Tyrion called after her.

Arya stopped.

*~*~*

“You knew how this would be...” Daenerys perched on the old stone window sill among the dried leaves and cobwebs. Varys and Ser Jorah stood restlessly in front, shoulder to shoulder. Both men wore uneasy expressions. “The path to the throne is paved with suffering and bought not with Braavosi gold but with innocent blood. I must conquer Westeros...” _Or all is lost_.

“This is not what I had in mind,” Varys cautioned. He had asked the Dornish for help himself and now wondered if it was right.

“You are adverse to violence,” Daenerys incorrectly assumed, “I understand that but swift victory saves blood.”

“Whose lives are you planning to save?” He asked directly. “Certainly not the citizens of King's Landing. The Dornish long for revenge. Your conquest cannot be about settling old scores or the people will reject you.”

Daenerys was quiet on the subject, avoiding Jorah's piercing gaze which refused to leave her. He could hear her unsaid words but make no sense of them. “If you have something to say...”

“I do not, Your Grace,” Jorah replied.

“Good. Then return to the bank and see if our lords and masters have come to an answer. It is nearly sunset.”

“You gave them until tomorrow.”

“I know.” The dragon was impatient for an answer so Jorah dipped his head and turned, leaving Daenerys alone with Varys. “You, however, have something else to add...”

The Sealord's corpse was stiff behind them, like coral jutting from the seabed. Varys founds his eyes wandering there as he spoke. “I believe he held on through all these years if only to meet you.”

Daenerys gave nothing away.

“What did he say?”

She slid off the window sill and moved back into the room. Varys was left with his silence.

*~*~*

It was near dark when Jorah reached the _Purple Harbour_. The sun set fast in this part of the world. They were further north, with the waters of the _Shivering Sea_ gently brushing against the stone. To his left, _Rhaegal_ and _Drogon_ formed dark shadows on the statue, perching on the giant's shoulders. Activity swarmed over the queen's ship with lanterns setting every window aglow and sailors scurrying up the masts to secure the sails for the night.

Ceremony had been dispatched with. The front doors of the bank lay on the ground. Jorah stepped over them. A hinged snapped off under his weight. Charcoal lay in sad piles beneath the torches that burned as embers. Children swept the floors while larger men averted their eyes, lifting pieces of broken wall out of the walkway.

Tycho cut a disturbing figure in the centre of the hall. One of his bankers lay on the ground, dead with his bald head smashed in with a block of marble still dripping from Tycho's hand. Jorah worried the handle of his sword as he approached.

“No need for that,” Tycho assured the knight. “Mormont, right?” he asked, setting the chunk of marble on the table before wiping the blood off on his robes. “Can always spot them,” Tycho continued, not waiting for an answer. “They're very _awkward_ in the world. And around money. Legend has it they won their beloved island in a wager. Is this a wager?” His tone turned serious. “I am a betting man myself.”

Jorah considered the banker for a long time before replying, “It was a wrestling match.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Not a bet. Bear Island was won and then bestowed on my family as a gift. In the countless years since, we've repaid that gift with honour. Bankers know nothing of honour, only of wagers. Is life a scale to you? Do you weigh men's hearts against their gold? You'll get nowhere with the queen.”

“She's not a queen yet.”

A rare smile cracked over Jorah's features. “She's _the_ queen.”

“We'd be prepared to support that. Upon careful consideration, the Iron Bank will endorse Daenerys Targaryen in her claim in exchange for the monies owed by the Crown. Our harbours will close trade with the Baratheon and Lannister names and cut off all funding to their supporting houses. Loans will be null and void. The kingdom will starve.”

“This decision is unanimous?” Jorah asked.

“It is now,” Tycho relied, with a nod to the body at his feet. “Your queen has her bridge to Westeros.”

 


	49. The Bridge To Westeros

  

 

###  **PORT MORAQ**

###  **GREAT MORAQ – THE JADE SEA**

  
  


It was an ancient catastrophe picked apart by the wind. The island of _Great Moraq_ and the city gouged out of from the rock were equally strangled by the encroaching jungle. Alive, it suffocated every attempt at civilisation before ending with its roots in the salt water. A ferocious haze of winged mites descended with the light, thickening until their bodies smoked in the oil lamps, swinging from branches, strung low over the streets like sad stars. In the day, when the forest cats slept high in the bowers of engorged water-trees, sudden bursts of wind reared out from the _Cinnamon Straits_ and kicked loose a folly of orange petals. They tumbled down the stone avenues in a rain of burnt blood.

Quaithe walked amongst them – felt them brush against her golden mask and catch in the folds of her robes. The jungle covered  _ Great Moraq's _ main street with a bower, allowing only occasional fragments of light to touch the uneven cobblestones. It sloped gently, tangling through the haphazard buildings whose brush doors were shut. Floral braids jostled over them. Chickens stalked the abandoned street. Not a soul braved the sight of the pirate fleet amassing in the harbour. Quaithe kept her eyes on the dragon. It perched at the bow of the lead ship, glistening in the sun.

“Foolish girl!” A man grabbed her arm, dragging her from the road. Quaithe was thrown behind a crude statue of a panther reclined among a garden of ferns.

“Wreab!” She hissed angrily. He'd been there for some time, hiding like the rest of  _ Moraq _ . “What are you doing?”

“What am  _ I  _ doing?” he replied in admonishment. “What are  _ you  _ doing – tryin' to get yourself killed? Those are pirates in th' harbour.”

“You're a pirate...” Quaithe pointed out dryly.

“A trader,” he corrected. “This different. I seen their like before. Nasty sort. Worst in the seas. Can pick 'em out by the black plank in the side of them ships.”

“I came to take you back to your ship, Wreab. They'll be after all that gold you've buried in the forest.”

“I know. I'd be bloody back there already if it weren' for my men. Stuck in the tavern at the end o' the road.” Wreab looked to the water and the fleet of ships beyond the gates. He'd noticed the beast perched on deck. “Is that why you're here?” he asked, nodding at the dragon. “Same as the last. Another one of those Targaryen monsters?”

“Perhaps...” she replied. “There were three of them. I've seen only one adult dragon and it was black.”

“It ain' that one then.” Wreab rested against the statue. The jungle heat made him shine with sweat which only served to attract a constant arsenal of insects to his skin. Some of them got stuck there, twitching their segmented legs while their wings were trapped in his sweat. “Whatever you're thinking, the answer is  _ no _ ...” he said, to the silent thoughts of his companion. “All of your ideas are bad,” Wreab continued. “Ain't one that didn't land me in trouble. Where are you going?”

*~*~*

The pirates had brought half a dozen craft into the harbour while the rest lingered outside the gates. These vessels were light in the water with empty hulls and a skeleton crew. They lowered their sails, coasting in before tossing ropes at the harbour crews who warily fastened them to the wharf. Their red flag of trade fought the wind, rippling against the perfect sapphire sky.

“That must be the new king,” Wreab whispered.

“New?” Quaithe asked, joining him at their new hide closer to the water. It smelled of fish.

“Aye, new. Last I heard they was run by a pirate queen. Whoever that is – ain' no lass. Looks like a pale eel got stuck on one of their hooks.”

Quaithe had to agree, as the slender man stepped off the ship. Her eyes were drawn to his sword, strapped around his waist. It was so heavy it threatened to tear not only his leather belt but the pants as well. His ribs showed, jutting out from a muscular figure. “They're starving,” she said.

“So they've come for food instead of gold.”

“He's not much of a pirate, is he?”

Wreab wasn't so sure. “If life on the seas as taught me anything, it is not to judge a ship by its flag.”

“I need to know who he is.”

“You're going t' get us  _ both _ killed. He probably stole that dragon.”

“You can't steal a dragon,” Quaithe replied firmly. “They're not sheep. The dragon is following him for a reason and if it truly is one of Daenerys' dragons, then this pirate king may very well help us. You said it yourself, you're short on coin with the demise of  _ Yin _ .”

Wreab was unconvinced but sorceresses were impossible to persuade.

*~*~*

He looked ridiculous, strutting along the wharf toward the small envoy lined up in the shade. Shirtless, there was evidence of a recent battle staining the strips of material wound around his waist. His once pale skin had been burned a dozen times and was now dried, pealing along nasty cracks as if he were a serpent shedding a face.

“I thought he'd be bigger,” Wreab commented, even closer. They'd slipped through the undergrowth all the way to the edge of the wharf.

“Ironic.”

“Why?”

Quaithe lofted her eyebrow at her moderately sized companion but offered no further explanation. “You are right – he isn't the picture of a pirate king.”

“Nothing is right with the world at the moment. No bloody fish in the sea either.”

The pirate king and representatives of  _ Great Moraq _ were conversing in  _ High Valyrian _ . He was fluent but his words were rounded with a  _ Tyroshi  _ hollow on the vowels and something iron in the crests.

“Where are your men?” Quaithe asked. Wreab nodded to the tavern perched directly over the docks. Constructed from jungle wood, its left side leaned awkwardly. “Damn...” she added, as the convoy departed the docks and headed into the tavern to continue their business. “You better hope your trade partners keep a low profile.”

“You're not followin' them...”

She was. Quaithe was unusual enough in appearance to resemble one of the locals. They adorned themselves in all manner of coloured cloth to keep the insects at bay and drowned whatever was left in oil and spice. She slid into the tavern, carrying a tray of drinks. The pirates and masters of  _ Port Moraq  _ were ringed by prostitutes and musicians while they settled their arrangement. Very odd, Quaithe thought. Pirates rarely traded. If he were truly a feared pirate king he'd have sacked the harbour, stuck the master's head on a pole and raped his way from street to street until his ships were full. The dragon queen had waged a personal vendetta against slavery in the East. If this pirate was one of her allies, perhaps she had forbidden it.

“You there... You.” One of the men from the pirate's table waved Quaithe over, commanding her to pour drinks.

Her mask of gold rustled as she bent over the pirate king's shoulder and when she was close enough to whisper so that only he could hear, she said,  _ “I serve your queen.” _ The pirate said nothing as he waved her off but for the remainder of the negotiations his eyes drifted to the woman with the mask.

“That one, too...” he finally said, pointing at Quaithe.

The master of  _ Port Moraq _ followed his eye and shrugged. “As you like.” The woman was nothing to him. A pair of his men took Quaithe roughly by the arms. She offered no protest and fixed her dark eyes on Wreab, who stewed in the corner of the room under the pretence of a local.

*~*~*

It was only when they were below deck on the pirate king's ship that he finally addressed her directly.

“Which queen would that be? There are so many these days, it is difficult to keep track.”

Quaithe remained in the centre of the room, allowing the pirate to stalk curiously around her. He was still carrying the sword and kept one hand on its hilt at all times. New... He was afraid it might vanish. “Queen Daenerys Targaryen,” she replied. “Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Meereen, the Andals, Rhoynar and of the Fist Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. I served her in Asshai and Qarth.”

Her words moved the pirate. “Daenerys was in Asshai?” he asked urgently.

“She was,” Quaithe confirmed. “With the Mormont knight.”

“I thought – perhaps – that she might be dead.” His facade fell away. Suddenly he looked nothing like a pirate king and every inch the sellsword muddling his way through life at the edge of the world. “The last time I saw the queen was in the Great Grass Sea on the outskirts of Meereen. She'd been taken prisoner by a rival khalasar. Jorah Mormont and I went in search of her but it all went a little... wrong. I was captured and taken into slavery. The last time I laid eyes on the queen she had a knife to her throat. That bloody bear must have come through in the end.”

“Then you are one of her soldiers?”

“Sellsword. I led the Seven Sons.” He bowed. “Daario Naharis, the queen's paramour. We sail toward Westeros to fight her war.”

“You sail under her name, unsure if she is alive?”

“We sail for her cause.”

“And the dragon?”

“Viserion? He follows. The dragon was my hope. I like to think that he trails me to find his mother. I have answered your questions, now answer mine. Who are you?”

She told him as much of the truth as he needed but stopped short of divulging her plans. He seemed satisfied, having heard Daenerys' stories about an oracle that came to her both in a dream and life. They were disturbed by a scream on deck and the sound of something heavy falling to the wood. A tiny body lay on the ground, surrounded by three of the pirate guards. One of their sabres was bloody.

Quaithe sank silently to the deck, kneeling in a pool of blood. Wreab rolled over, in the throws of death. He seemed stunned by the torrent of sticky liquid running over his hands, emanating from a gaping tear in his stomach. “I told you to wait. I told you to wait...” she kept repeating, feeling a sudden clench at her heart as his hands fisted in her clothes. Wreab held her as if she were life itself.

“Had to make sure you were okay, didn' I, princess?” he replied, a weak smile struggling over his mouth. He was the only living soul brave enough to call her 'princess'. Then he was gone with a final lurch of pain. His eyes rolled back. Heavy lids closed. Wreab tumbled out of her arms and lay dead.

*~*~*

When they sailed out of  _ Port Moraq, _ heavy ships marking a fresh waterline, it was to the sound of the dead man's song. Daario had the pirates sing as a form of contrition. Orange flowers were laid on the water and somewhere underneath the waves his corpse was weighed down with rocks so the creatures of the sea could feed. That was their way. The way of the sea.

Ally or not, Quaithe did not mention Wreab's men anchored in the other bay for fear they would be attacked. They were left, floating in the shade of the mountain for a captain who had sunk beneath the waves.

“He's large,” Quaithe eyed the golden dragon, who dived through the air once the fleet was at speed. “Not as large as the other that I saw the queen riding.”

“Riding?” Daario was astonished. “Drogon was the largest. The other two spent some time locked beneath the great pyramid at  _ Meereen _ . In the short time he's been with me, Viserion has grown. Why do you look at my sword?”

Quaithe's eyes had lingered again. “Valyrian steel,” she replied. “Though I think you know that. There are not many in the world and they all have names. Brightroar...” Quaithe leaned forward as the sea spray dripped from her mask. “The Lannister sword. I'd be careful who you let see that or you'll be a head shorter than my old friend resting under the waves.”

Daario felt her owed the odd woman a debt for the death of her man. Perhaps that was why he'd agreed to take her with him. “Remember what I said.”

“I know,” she stopped him. “This is far from the first time I've sailed with a pirate. Magic is bad luck on the water, or so the old songs go.”

“You'll stay here, in my cabins.”

“Your oriental whore.”

“In name only.”

_ Obviously _ , Quaithe thought to herself. Once she'd been beautiful enough to tempt any man from his honour. Her power lay in visions now, not the southern regions of men's hearts.

“If Daenerys is alive we'll find her,” Daario added, turning his back on the water.

Quaithe watched him silently for many hours after that. She was beginning to think there might be some truth in Wreab's words. Daario's story regarding his service to the queen sounded well enough but there were subtleties in the way the sellsword rode the swell – the way he gripped the rigging and danced along the edges of the ship. He was born on the sea. His soul was in the spray. A pirate, of that Quaithe was certain.

###  **THE IRON BANK**

###  **BRAAVOS – ESSOS**

Jorah Mormont had maintained his stoic silence for a good five minutes. Tyrion remained expectant, hopeful even, if not still a little drunk as he lingered beside the young girl they'd brought below deck.

“It's -”

“I know who it is,” Jorah caught Tyrion short. The North knew their own. “You are a long way from home, Lady Stark,” he addressed the girl directly.

Arya had not paid much attention to her lessons but the silver bear pin on the knight's tunic picked him out as a Mormont, loyal to her house. “Do I know you, ser?” she asked, fighting against a strange feeling that had not crossed her for many years. _Hope_.

“Aye, you do,” he nodded, softening slightly. “I visited Winterfell when you were not long born. There were blue ribbons tied from every window.” Mormont's eye line lowered to Tyrion. His family removed Ned Stark's head and set it on a spike. He wondered if the young girl understood who stood beside her. “Could we have a moment?”

Tyrion's face fell. “Why?” The glare in response was enough. “Fine – fine...” Tyrion held up his hands, stumbled into a table and then left. Missandei lingered in a moment of conflict before following him out.

Jorah dragged a chair across the floor with an ungodly screech. He lowered himself into it so that they were the same height. _Definitely a Stark_. There was no denying the eyes, bitter with revenge. Those that saw a defenceless child were blind. This little one was a wolf.

“I like your sword,” he started. Instantly protective, the girl covered its hilt with her palm. “Does it have a name?”

“Needle.”

“A fine name for a fine sword,” he assured her, Jorah's voice softer than usual. “You hold onto it,” Jorah added. “Might need it, where we're headed.”

“Back to Westeros...?” Arya sought confirmation.

“Is that where you're trying to go?”

“Home.” There was more honesty in her reply than Arya had meant.

“Home is a dangerous place.” He didn't know how to broach the subject. The North was complicated and her surviving siblings were in more danger than they'd ever been in.

“The world is a dangerous place for little girls,” she replied, wiser than her years. “I've been all over. I poured wine for Twyin Lannister, saw my brother's body sewn onto his wolf. I had a hound for a keeper and murderers as company.” Her focus shifted to a lantern burning on the table beside them. _The Red Witch, too._ “Will you take me home, ser?”

Jorah had more bravery unarmed before a massacre than in front of a begging child. This wolf pup at his feet awakened some of the honour in him. “I'll try,” he promised. “First we must win a great battle. Then, on my word, I'll take you to your family in Winterfell.” Jorah extended his arm. Arya took hold of it, gripping it as men of the North when a pledge was made. She was bloody strong. “Do you know the small man who was in here before?”

Arya nodded. “Tyrion Lannister.” She was no fool.

“He serves our queen – your queen now.”

“The North knows no king but the king in the North and his name is Stark.” Jorah lurched forward, placing his hand over her mouth. He shook his head firmly. It was softer than the smack in the face Arya was accustomed to. Arya had been mistaken. Those were not the words this Mormont wanted to hear. When his hand lowered, Arya asked, “Who is the queen?”

*~*~*

Jorah emerged from the cabin carrying the Stark girl in one arm. Tyrion and Missandei waited in the hall, pressed up against the ship's narrow innards. “This is Lady Stark,” Jorah announced to them and any other crew nearby, “daughter of Eddard Stark – a good and honourable man of the North. She will sail with us as our guest.” Then he passed her into the care of Missandei. “Tyrion, a word.”

Once alone, Tyrion started laughing at the bear. “She's a _child_ ,” he insisted, his mop of golden hair longer than usual.

“She's a Stark,” Jorah assured him, “and that makes all the difference.”

“Let her try, if she likes.”

“This is not a joke, Lannister,” Jorah pushed him back against the wall with one of his paws. “I saw something flicker across her eyes when she said your name.”

“She could have already done it – there was amble opportunity before you wandered aboard.”

“Wolves _hunt_.”

On that unsettling note, Jorah left the imp to his thoughts.

*~*~*

Arya took to the rigging, scaling it all the way to one of the look outs. _Braavos_ lay open on the water. _The House of Black and White_ loomed to her left, lonely and pale like a dragon skull. She thought of Jaqen H'ghar and the Faceless Men. They had washed over the world in a silent wave, unseen, pulling the strings of empires. She was another, on a boat to _Westeros –_ or was she Arya Stark? She gripped the rigging more tightly. _“I am no one,”_ she breathed with the wind, despite Needle at her hip and thoughts of _Winterfell_ obscuring the sea.

*~*~*

“What moves you to smile, Your Grace?” Varys asked softly, as the Sealord's body was ferried off into the waves by a raft weighed down with flowers. The waters were calm, dragging the corpse out with the tide.

“Something he said,” Daenerys replied, bowing out of respect for the old man as one of the candles caught a drizzle of oil and erupted in flame. “He spoke as though we were all trapped in a cycle, over and over, doomed to repeat.”

“And that made you smile?”

“There is some comfort,” she turned away from the body burning on the water. The others copied her. “Knowing that we'll all meet again. That the world will turn over. Will we learn from our mistakes? I rather believe we'll make them afresh.”

Varys never understood what made her smile. _The mad smile at anything._

*~*~*

The bankers presented Daenerys with papers of legitimacy, declaring her the true queen of _Westeros_. Varys bundled them up, locking them in his trunk along with Jorah's pardon and other documents of the State.

It was night. The waters turned. The queen's ship was freed of its moorings. Sails were unfurled to the wind. They flapped sharply, filling with salt air. Cruising around the bay, the dragons heard. They dipped their wings, turning toward the ship. Behind, black smoke from the _Iron Bank_ trailed into the sky. Daenerys remained on deck, leaning over the rail. Her eyes were on the shrinking stain of _Braavos_. She feared it was the last time she'd lay eyes on it. Something stirred beside her.

“Your Grace...”

Daenerys turned to find Jorah nearby, his hand on the shoulder of a skinny child. Missandei had done her best to clean Arya up but she still resembled a common street rat.

“May I present Lady Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark.”

_He is nervous_ , Daenerys observed the tremble in his voice.

“I have pledged to return her home, to Winterfell.”

_Pledged without asking permission, that is why he shakes_ . Daenerys observed the face of her knight carefully. His eyes pleaded with her, glossy in the moonlight. Starks and Mormonts, a bond much older and stronger than the one they shared. He never asked anything of her. The flicker of jealousy confused Daenerys. He'd given her no reason to doubt his loyalty. She was his queen.  _The North is his home._

Daenerys' reply was a deliberate nod. Jorah released Arya, who scampered off across the deck to hide amongst the ropes and whisper names at the night.

Jorah's eyes were cast down, following the cracks in the ship's deck instead of the searching eyes of his queen. He had overstepped his position as her council and she had allowed it.

“Lift your eyes, ser, you might learn something.”

He did and nearly fell when he saw his queen's expression formed into a soft smile. “Her father was killed by the Lannisters, as mine was.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And I need to build alliances in the North.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Then once again you have brought me a gift.” Her 'gift' was hanging in a mess of ropes dangerously close to the water. Daenerys stepped away from the rail but allowed her hand to trail along its polished surface as she walked. Her silver hair was almost white in the moonlight, which robbed the faint mauve hue from her robes. She was a ghost, transiting the world like a breath of wind.

“ _Anha zhilak yera norethaan...”_ The unguarded words slipped from his lips like a spring rain as she walked away. They had been so quiet that for a moment he thought she had not heard but then his queen paused, tilting her head up to look at the moon.

“I know...”

The distance between them had increased tenfold since she'd returned from the Sealord. Whatever he shared with her, Daenerys used it to build a wall around herself. The queen vanished below deck, locking herself in her cabin. The lanterns flared. Their flames twisted violently in glass cages, spurred on by will. Outside her window, the moon sank toward the water. She swiped a glass of wine from her table and flung it furiously at the window. It hit the sill, smashing in a crimson explosion. Wine dripped onto the floor. Daenerys slid down the surface of the door.

*~*~*

They both heard the goblet shatter below deck. Jorah flinched. Varys did not. The two had not spoken since Varys returned to the ship with the Martell prince. They were ferrying him as far as the The _Stepstones_ .

“What did he tell the queen?”

Varys shrugged. “I do not know.”

They were sailing toward certain war. It was in the air. Jorah could smell the burned bodies and festering corpses before they fell.

“You've been in a scrap,” Varys added, noticing fresh cuts on the knight's flesh.

“It was a long journey,” Jorah replied. “Drogon has his own way of travel.”

“Asshai...”

“Yes,” Jorah confirmed quietly, “Asshai.”

Varys went quiet, meditating on thoughts of those blackened shores. He itched to ask what it was like to walk among the ruins of magic. It was a sick fascination with the power that took part of his flesh. He often imagined the twisted buildings from the  _Old Town_ texts. Any traveller to pass through  _King's Landing_ was brought to his door for interrogation. Obsession. It brimmed in the edges of Varys' eyes. Mormont could sense it.

“The North is breaking apart,” Jorah said instead. “Your little birds will arrive with confirmation soon enough but we were there, on the shores of Bear Island when the Wildlings attacked. They made it across the Bay of Ice.”

_They're coming. They're coming._ The words circled Varys' thoughts. “It would take all the armies of Westeros – and more beside – to hold the North.”

“Dragons will help.”

Varys nodded. They had two of the three, trailing the ship.

“What haven't you said?” Jorah prompted, as Varys watched the dragons.

“Yin...”

“What of it?”

“Gone, they say. Raided by pirates.”

“You should speak to the queen.” Mormont dared not speak any more on the subject. The queen had set the armies of the East into motion and not told a soul _why_. Perhaps she would tell Varys and he could tear it out of the spider later. Varys took a step backwards, crossing Jorah's path before he could leave. “Yes?”

“At least present yourself to Missandei – have a look at those cuts. The last thing the queen needs is you dying at sea before the battle.”

*~*~*

Missandei's stitching left a great deal to be desired.

“Something bothering you?” Jorah offered, as she pulled a stitch through so tightly it nearly ripped a fresh hole. “Daenerys will be pleased to see you.”

“The queen has locked herself in her quarters.” Another sharp tug. “There. At least you won't bleed all over the ship.”

Jorah stood, about to leave when Missandei stopped him. She'd spied the tear in his calf where the strange robes didn't quite reach. Shaking her head, she knelt down in front of him, parting the fabric to get a look. Her hands flew away when she saw the odd script faded into his skin. Jorah stepped away from her.

“It's fine.”

“What happened?”

“It's _fine_.”

In his quarters, Jorah stripped out of the robe and stood before the mirror. The script covered his skin like a shadow. It waxed and waned with the poison in his blood.

“ _What are you doing? You bloody fool...”_ Jorah addressed his reflection. He was in too deep.

*~*~*

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Tyrion waited at the door, head resting against the familiar surface. He could hear Missandei inside, shuffling around.

“It's only me,” he added, as if to coax her out. _Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._ Silence. “Is something wrong?” he offered, turning to lay against her door instead. “Did I do something?” he added. “More than likely. That's usually the case. If I have, I'm sorry. Missandei?” Tyrion sighed, giving up for the moment.

###  **BAY OF ICE – THE NORTH**

There was more ice than water. It slid against the boat in a slurry as Dorin dragged the oar through the mess. The front of the open boat was occupied by the _Wildling_ maester. He clutched a bag to his chest containing the volatile flasks of Wildfire.

Their world was consumed by the sound of ice cracking against the wood. Over and over. It was an endless cycle as they crept closer to the white shore. They could see the cliffs rearing up – one side made of rock and the other of ice, cleaving into the water. Strung between them was a vault of wood, frozen sold over the centuries. The _Bridge of Skulls_.

Dorin lashed the boat to the Eastern side of the bay before helping the maester onto the treacherous, ice-covered dock that barely managed to cling to the land. The water, which once ferociously gushed out the lips of the gorge, was almost stationary, locked by the cold.

Together, they climbed the stairs and emerged beside the ruins of _Westwatch_. Black and decrepit, the right flank of the building had been eaten by _The Wall_.

“My gods...” The maester fell to his knees at the sight of _The Wall_.

Dorin fished him from the snow. “No time.” He dragged the maester along, through the remains of the iron gates and out toward the bridge.

They stood at the edge, between he pillars. It was not so much a 'bridge of skulls' as a passage of frozen corpses. Whatever malady befell this place its victims had been frozen into the structure of the bridge. Those bony faces screamed at them, contorted in eternal terror. Beyond, there was a rise of white and then nothing.

“Nothing.” The maester stepped onto the edge of the bridge. It was oddly firm underfoot. The wind had no effect. It rushed against the fangs of ice hanging from the rail. Snow fell, concealing the ice.

Dorin didn't trust the quiet. “Nothing _yet_.”

The men looked behind to the castle and plain of ice – _Westeros_ , its northern edge, as desolate and dead as the _Lands of Always Winter._ The bridge linked the two. Dorin nodded at the maester. “Destroy it.”

The maester stepped forward. “Help me?”

*~*~*

Progress was slow. Every step was a temptation for death. The ice underfoot tried to tear them from the bridge while the wind grabbed their cloaks, picking them up and fanning them out like a ship's sails. The maester was in front, gripping the rail with both hands as he neared the centre of the bridge. He stopped at a _Wildling_ corpse stretched over the ground ahead. It could have died yesterday.

“Here will do,” Dorin said, ignoring the body.

The maester finally nodded and together they raided his bag of Wildfire. They could not light it from the bridge with a candle – the wind was too strong, so as the maester secured the last of it amongst the corpses, Dorin returned to the land and knelt in the snow. He smashed flint together, preparing to light the arrows they'd brought with them.

He felt it first.

A tremble in the snow.

With a tiny flame growing in the oiled rags beneath his hands, Dorin lifted his head. The ridge of ice on the other side of the bridge filled with corpses. They stood, bones and dead men held up by a terrible magic. Countless eyes. An army of the dead.

 


	50. The North Awakens

 

###  **THE BRIDGE OF SKULLS**

###  **WESTWATCH – THE NORTH**

  
  


Two shards of flint dropped into the fire. The dead army clawed over the rise of ice, digging their bones and blades into the impasse. It sparkled, like the uneasy curve of the ocean – a sheer blade of ice lusting after the land.

“Leave it...” Dorin gasped, his terrified eyes fixed on the maester.

There was no hope of the Southerner hearing his plea. Dorin watched the first corpse break the ridge. It threw itself onto the slope, barrelling toward the bridge, losing pieces of itself in the snow drift. As it approached the _Bridge of Skulls_ an invisible boulder of ice knocked it off course. Shunted to the side, the skeleton missed the bridge entirely. It sailed through the air, passing the maester who was still crouched over the last puddle of Wildfire and then fell abruptly into the mess of ice below. The impact shattered the magic holding its limbs together leaving it a ruin in the shifting, half-frozen ravine.

No matter. Ten thousand more approached. A crunch of death. They moved to follow. Some of the ridge broke away under their weight, snapping in half. Those marooned on the doomed ice lost their footing as it scooted off into the gorge. One of the skeletons was thrown loose, tangling with the bridge. The creature looked up, eyeless sockets staring blankly at the maester. There was nothing in those pits.

“Run!” Dorin screamed.

The maester smashed the last of the Wildfire over the bridge. He turned, desperately hastening away. He saw Dorin at the edge of the bridge, stringing a bow with the tiny glow of a fire at his feet.

“They're coming!” The maester stumbled on the ice. It was impossible to move.

“Fuckin' aye!” Dorin screeched back, fumbling with the string. He looped it – then looped it again as his fingers failed. He'd strung a bow a million times and yet was barely able to hold the damn thing in place.

Pursuing the maester, the skeleton clawed at his cloak, tripping him. The maester's face smashed into the ice as he fell, sliding along the bridge with the creature attached. He wrestled on the ice until half his torso threatened to fall off the side. He yelped, grasping at the frozen ropes above as his weight shifted and he felt the pull from the abyss. They snapped in his hands. Ice showered his face, stabbing his flesh like knives with the cold. He was halfway between the Wildfire and Dorin when the army of undead breached the bridge.

Faster than the ice-heavy wind, their wretched figures scrambled forward. He had _moments._ Then the skeleton stabbed its bony hands into his thigh, spreading fresh blood over the ice.

“Do it! Bloody do it! _You coward!_ Burn it all, you bastard! Burn it a-”

The bridge exploded in a ball of green fire. It ripped through the wood, smashing the structure apart. Dorin was thrown backwards into the snow with a roar of thunder. The force pinned him down – shook the castle behind and smashed fragile overhangs of ice from _The Wall_. They collapsed in the distance. Green smoke towered above. Dorin propped himself up. The Wildfire had melted away the ice from the cliff leaving a black scar in place of the bridge. Below, wights burned in a pool of freshly formed water. There was nothing left of the maester. He would sleep with the gods tonight.

On the other side of the cliff, the dead army amassed – cut off from _Westeros._ They stared at Dorin, marking him in their collective minds before they turned as one, eyeing _The Wall_. Then they vanished over the ridge and all was eerily serene. A ridge of glistening snow. Pastel skies tainted green. The milky eye of the sun, bloodshot with dusk.

Dorin vibrated with fear.

Wind scratched across _The Wall,_ trembling a spray of blue roses. He'd see those faces again.

###  **NIGHTFORT – THE NORTH**

The icicles hanging from the walls of the _Nightfort_ chattered together like a line of king's glasses amid the height of a feast. Not that Edd had been privy to many of those – unless he was crouched under the tables, thieving from the lords and ladies while they spilled over their fine clothes and wrestled drunkenly in each others arms. They were no different to the starving hoards beyond the gates. One night was all he wanted. One night of _that_. What did he get? _This shit._

Edd and his men fumbled within the fort's depths, imprisoned by a labyrinth of stone hallways. They sought refuge from the howling wind, now a distant whisper as it moved over the land, tearing across the bleak stone above.

“What was tha'?”

“Nothin'!” Edd snapped at one of the men. Their nerves were tightening his. There was nothing in this waste of rock to worry about except the bloody cold and bewildering architecture. “Shut up. Keep moving. When I find the bugger he'll wish the Wildlings got him!”

They were searching for Cub who'd wandered off on his own, incapable of following any reasonable order. Above, the ceiling creaked. Dust and ice trickled onto their backs, working through the gap between their necks and the fur like frozen hands diving into their spines. Their torches leaned against a brief rush of air as they braced a new corridor. They carried on, pushing deeper into the castle that had stood as a wretched tomb to all the horrors of Winters past.

Cub was found stood reverently before a howling pale face, staring into its withered features carved directly into the _Weirwood_. The _Black Gate_ , in the flesh, locked on every front by black stone.

“Who could make such a thing?” Cub asked as the others approached, partly in awe, unable to look away. “If you could freeze a man's agony and all the blackness of his heart, it might look like this.”

“Poet, eh? _You_ might look like this,” Edd lumbered forward, grabbing Cub by the scruff of his furs, “when I'm through with you!” His anger died in the presence of the _Black Gate_. It overwhelmed the space – howling at them. “Children...” Edd replied solemnly. “That's who did it. Children and the First Men.” Those were stories to scare little lords. They rang true as he stood in its shadow. “There are many gates along The Wall – one at Castle Black too. Sam used to say this one was different. Loved to tell stories about it from them books he read in tha' old dragon's library. Said there was a stench o' magic about it. I ain' know much about magic but there's somethin' not right about it. What yer doin'?”

Cub wandered forward, pressing his hands against the cold surface ribbed with fissures. The wood pulsed beneath his hands as though it were alive. His hair stood on end – even the furs crackled against his skin.

“I seen what's on the other side,” Edd cautioned, refusing to come any closer. _Horrific._ The feeling wouldn't leave him. Magic was a twisted, vicious thing.

“I _feel_ it.”

“Come away from there.”

“They're waiting...”

“What is?”

“They are...” Ice crunching underfoot. Thousands of dead eyes. Bones torn from flesh. Behind them – horses with riders made of snow and death. Cub could see them in the screaming face.

_Thud._

Cub broke away from the gate, smashing into Edd. Limbs tangled.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

The sound came from the _Black Gate_. Edd retrieved the torch he'd dropped and stared at the _Weirwood_. “Search the castle...” he hissed to his men.

“Edd – the gate!” One of them protested, gesturing urgently at the _Black Gate._

“Search the bloody castle as you're told!” Edd growled – all of them whispering. “Whatever comes through that gate, we'll need more than common steel to fight them off. An' don' even think about runnin', you dogs!” he added, seeing several pairs of eyes waver. “They'll only hun' you down. I see you. Where would you run, home? Across them seas? Pick out a nice, sunny place for yourself n'some Lysene whorehouse with your tiny prick... Lovely. 'till the snows start. The waters freeze over an' the dead find you. No one's goin' to fight this war but us.” Well, that's what Jon would say although his words did not inspire the same devotion. “Do as your ruddy told!” He snapped at them, which proved more effective.

The men scattered, fanning out into the _Nightfort._ Edd didn't know how long the _Black Gate_ would keep out the dead army but knowing that it was there, a few inches from them, scared him shitless.

*~*~*

Dacey Mormont beat furiously against the wooden gate, slamming her frozen fists onto the surface until they were bloody. Crippled by the bitter wind, starved and grieved by what she'd seen, Dacey fell against the _Black Gate_ in a wash of tears.

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

  
  


Littlefinger stared into the flames at the heart of the forge. He'd been drawn in by the heat and stayed for the engaging sight of molten steel folding over itself. The smash of a blacksmith's anvil snapped him away. Sparks showered his furs. Sweat dripped into the forge, evaporating in the flames. There were whispers in that smoke, coagulating with its ash.

“Is it done?” Littlefinger asked prematurely, taking a step back from the intense heat radiating from the pit. “I did not bring you all this way for the pleasurable view.”

It wasn't much of a view. The ruins of _Winterfell_ hung like desolate mountains among the snow with trails of mist curling at their crests. A fragile ring of tents nested at its flanks, aglow with song and wine.

“Takes time,” Gendry replied, lifting the beginnings of a sword. He was a broad man with muscles sculptured in the heat of a forge. His dark hair was kept off his face by oil and sweat while the stink of him could rival a _Wildling_. “Almost no one forges like this.”

“I'm aware,” Littlefinger replied coolly. “I went to a great deal of trouble to hunt you from the Lysene shores.”

Gendry lifted his arm, wiping a torrent from his brow before bringing the hammer down, beating the metal into submission. He did this again and again while dusting the glowing blade with black powder. The work was filthy. “Wish you'd left me there, m'lord,” Gendry said, “bloody freezing up this way.”

“We have a deal,” Littlefinger reminded him, “if you can do what you say you can. Lys,” he pondered, “lovely place to hide away – with the right amount of coin.”

“Yeah, fine...” Gendry was nonplussed, shouldering out the lord from his forge. All he cared about was the glowing metal beneath and the embers of a sword. This was his chance to make weapons worthy of kings – weapons to be held by them and perhaps, weapons he could live through.

Despite his blood, Gendry was not fool enough to think he'd ever feel the weight of a crown. Those poor folk that wiled away their days fantasising about a footnote in the book of kings invited death and jealousy. It didn't interest him. A hundred of his siblings lay as babes in the earth. He'd lived to be a man because he was _no one._ Sword-smiths... they were truly immortal – their pages made of steel. When Gendry eyed the pair of Valyrian weapons in camp his thoughts drifted to the smiths that had forged them. They were made by different hands. The one with the wolf pummel was older – more beautifully tailored with a perfect edge and careful balance. _Oathkeeper_ , owned by the blonde woman, had a harsher make. He'd seen the work before. That sword was a re-forge – a desecration of another's art. Gendry refused to re-work a Valyrian blade. Instead, he'd promised to make one afresh.

The lord was watching him, creeping at the edge of the firelight.

“Something else, m'lord?”

Littlefinger found himself stilled by the sight. The blacksmith clasped the glowing length of steel in one hand, its tip leaning back towards the flame. Robert's ghost fell over the man's face. It was uncanny. Dark eyes, black as night – why did those eyes haunt him? “No...”

*~*~*

Lady Lyanna Mormont attended her ravens.

“There's a talent to it,” she announced, as the Lady of Winterfell approached all fur and fire-touched hair, speckled with snow. The black birds were free of their cages, hopping around the tumble of stones where he tiny bear laid seed. One perched on her shoulder, singing to the night. “I learned it from my mother. She always kept the finest creatures. It wasn't that she was terribly fond of birds. I think she rather disliked them. We're island folk, ravens are all we have to keep track of our southern cousins.” Lyanna cared for her birds... There was a softness in the way they ruffled their feathers against her gloves, seeking her affection.

“I've never had ravens,” Sansa replied, taking a seat beside her.

“You will now that you have a castle.”

Sansa's gaze wandered to the broken walls. “I wouldn't call it a 'castle'. A ruin at best. I wish you had seen it before with the fires ablaze and music in the hall.”

Lady Mormont presented the body of a child with the mind of a Lord. “You have an _idea_ ,” she corrected. “Winterfell is more than a building. Who knows how many times it's been torn apart. It does not matter.” One of the birds pecked at her fingers. “Hang your banners. Let the North see that their king has returned.”

“Is that what you are doing, sending ravens with the news?”

“No. I am waiting for it. Here she is now...” Lyanna nodded to the sky where a black dot was flying towards them. It was close enough for the pyres to light its wings. “News from Bear Island. I have them write regular.” The bird landed on her outstretched arm, digging in its slender claws, dusted in snow.

“Lady Mormont?” Sansa asked, as the bear's stoic expression darkened with concern.

Lyanna shooed the bird toward the others as she slid off the wall and paced about in the snow, considering the words scrawled over the parchment. Occasionally she'd pause to catch Sansa's eye before stalking off again in maddening circles. Brooding. Thinking. Every inch a bear. There wasn't an impulsive moment to them. Each decision was measured – considered – planned. They had less to bet with and everything to lose.

“It is a matter of some considerable delicacy. One that we cannot discuss out here.”

*~*~*

“My Lady, it is cold and dark, should we not move closer to the castle?” Ser Davos Seaworth buried his hands in his cloak to stop them shaking. _Dragonstone's_ dungeons were a cauldron compared to the frigid outskirts of _Winterfell_ castle. His concern was honestly meant if not misplaced. These were children of Winter.

Lady Mormont and Lady Stark had bid him meet in the _Godswood_ , alone. It was out of fear of the tiny bear that he obliged but Ser Davos kept an eye over his shoulder on the glow of the sprawling camp set up around the outskirts of the castle. He was right to fear. Mormont held a torch above her head, ignoring the sparks that raged out of its heart onto her face. Beneath the light her eyes were almost black.

“That would not be wise,” Lyanna replied. “I seek your council.”

The Stark girl remained silent. Davos ducked under a bower of _Weirwood_ leaves, stepping closer to the pair. “As you wish, though I doubt I'll be much good ter you.”

“You served as advisor to a king before...”

“A dead king, m'lady.”

“I'll risk it.” Lyanna dropped the torch between them. It burned in the snow at their feet. “Less than a day past an army of Wildlings attacked Bear Island.” She held up her hand when they both tried to interrupt. “The invaders were killed – all of them – violently. Their bodies were burned and the rest drowned in the bay as is our way. We've been fighting hoards off our shores for a thousand years. Bear Island does not enjoy the security of an ice wall. The Bay of Ice that separates us from the North has been freezing over.”

“Victory – that is good news, your people are all alive?”

“Lady Sansa, you do not understand...” Beside her, Davos swore. “He does.”

“That's a right mess there.”

“How should we tell them?”

“Tell them? Seven hells. Why do you want to go and do that? Best not to mention it.”

“We _must_ tell them,” Lyanna insisted. “This was not a small landing party. There were hundreds of Wildlings. Whole tribes now shift as smoke.”

“You said there were no survivors?” Sansa clarified. “We could bury it. Why risk telling the Wildling King something that might destroy the alliance? Our situation is tenuous. Jon granted them land and several abandoned castles but with the snows coming, there's nothing to grow or hunt. The _Wildling_ dream of rolling green hills and forest brimming with game has evaporated and with it, some of their loyalty.”

“It is a famous victory, Lady Stark. Proud men will spread word of it through the North sooner or later. If we are to lose the allegiance of the Wildlings, better we do so predictably. The risk of concealing this and having it surface in the midst of battle could be worse... Fatal, even, with things as they are.”

“Or they may turn and murder us in our beds right here...” Davos cautioned. “We might out number them but they could decimate our forces on short notice. You weren't there in Castle Black. There's a fine line between savagery and ferocity. Sometimes no line at all.”

“Ser Davos, you are wise.”

“Flattery is wasted on men like me.” He sighed heavily. It was snowing again. If it fell any more often, _Winterfell_ was in danger of being buried before the damn thing was built. “There are smarter men than me in this camp. My advice would be to seek theirs.”

“Being clever and acting wisely are scarcely the same thing, Ser Davos,” Mormont replied. “You cut to the heart of people. What do you think resides in Tormund's organ if we tear the flesh away?”

“Not half so much fire as I'd find in yours.”

The corner of Lady Mormont's lip found a smile.

“It is not Tormund that concerns me,” Davos continued. “He seems decent enough, all things considered. Its the Wildlings themselves. They've been fighting these wars longer than us. Mance banded them together more than a decade ago and it's been nothing but one long battle from that day to this. Now, with a bit of wine in their bellies and a moment of peace from the violence, they're collapsing. I have seen many men beaten. Those lost at sea have the same look.”

“I cannot wake dead men,” Lady Mormont quipped. “It has happened. Maesters debate what might have been done better until their lips are purple. I need only to know what remains to be done with what we have.”

_What a fucking mess..._ Davos tried not to imagine the bodies floating in the sea. He knew what those bodies looked like, bloated and crawling with crabs. His son's body dipping into the waters visited him nightly. “I beg your pardon but the advice you seek I cannot give. In times like these, Stannis would seek council from the Red Woman.”

She revolted at the thought. “Only a fool dabbles in the murmurs of gods.”

Lady Mormont reached up and snapped a small branch from the  _Weirwood_ tree. It had a spray of frosted leaves – almost black in the darkness. She held them over the fire burning at their feet and let it drop. The flames consumed it as perfumed smoke lifted. Suddenly, the flames rose several feet – pushing them all backwards. Around them, the halo of light surprised a pair of hungry wolves that had crept up upon them, preparing to strike. They scattered into the  _Godswood_ , afraid of the fire. Ser Davos was afraid too. He drew his sword, turning slowly at the forest, searching for hungry eyes in the dark.

“You see – Ser Davos?” Lady Mormont asked. “The more light we shed, the clearer danger becomes. The darkness does not protect us from it.”

*~*~*

The Red Woman held Jon Snow's sword across her bare palms. To him she was a withered creature, lingering at the last thread of life while the rest of the world lusted after a play of magic and shadows she called her face.

“In the East, where the deserts kiss the sea, there are beaches that stretch as far as you can see. At night, if the seas are warm and the rains have been, the edge of the tide glows as if it were an ember. There's no heat. The light comes from seaweed, torn apart from its watery grave and washed against the sand.”

Jon stared at the sorceress. He did not know why he chose to spend so many nights in her melancholy company. Perhaps it was because she had pulled him out from death's submersion – because she knew the truth of what waited from them when the wars were done...

“Traders walk the beaches, collecting the weed into glass jars. They sell it to conjurers and physicians. It's very popular in Yi Ti where drama usurps truth. I imported a great deal of this substance while serving King Stannis. I'd -” her words were interrupted by a half-smile on her cracked lips, “-crush it up into a powder and mix it with oil and pig's blood. There were grand ceremonies amidst the sacrificial pyres. He'd dip his sword into the mixture, buried in holes in the sand and pull from the beach a glowing sword. Azor Ahai's sword. Or so I prayed.”

“It was a trick...”

She nodded. “Of course. I used to think all magic was a trick. I was very good at them. It's all in the delivery – much like leadership.”

Jon thought about the blue-skinned demon he'd watched raise an army from the water. There was no trickery to his magic – it was real. As real as his own body, dragged from death. “Trickery will not help us where we're going.”

Melisandre nodded. “I know. Have you heard the prophecies, my Lord?” Jon remained stoic. “They all agree that to defeat the things that hunt us in the night Azor Ahai must wield a sword touched by fire.”

“Valyrian steel defeats their weapons,” Jon replied. “I've held ordinary swords and felt them shatter in my hand, broken by their ice knives. The sword you hold now does not break when it is struck.”

“It is a fine sword,” she agreed, handing it back to Jon. “But it is not as the prophecies foretold.”

“Perhaps you can dip it in sheep's blood...” The flap of their tent folded up. Snow and wind cut in. “Sansa... what's wrong?” She was followed into the tent by Ser Davos and Lady Mormont, both of whom eyed the witch darkly before lingering near the fire. Around them, the animal hide billowed with gusts of wind. “The Wildlings have left,” Jon replied, after they had finished.

“When?” Sansa stepped forward.

“At dusk. Lord Baelish and a legion of his men left for the Dreadfort to secure the Bolton gold.” If anything, the departure of Baelish alarmed his sister more. He watched her turn her back on the fire while Lady Mormont spoke.

“That is unwise. Was not Lord Baelish Master of Coin for the Crown? Word was he lost a great deal of it into his own wealth.”

“Aye,” Davos agreed. “I heard that too.”

“We have to pay for the Vale's armies. He's taken them to the Dreadfort to feed them as much as anything else. Look around you. Winterfell can't support an army in its current state. We have to break it into pieces – position them carefully where they can rest and re-group. Let Lord Baelish think he has won a victory. Gold is of no use to us at the present.”

_Petyr is cleverer than that_ , Sansa realised. While they were squabbling over gold, he was allying the  _Wildling_ army to his side. With that much gold and a proper force, he could start buying off the South. Wealthy men pine for gold, perhaps his first lure would be cast at Lord Randyll Tarly... If only he'd taken her with him.

###  **THE SHIVERING SEA**

_Snowflake_ lay on the small table in Jorah's cabin. He stared, enraptured by its curve of ice and the mist that lifted off the surface as though it burned with the cold. _A forest of pine, trembling. Ice cracking underfoot._ _Smoke and festering bodies drifting with the fog._ Memories, dreams or glimpses of the future? They tormented Jorah whenever his body threatened sleep until he was afraid to rest.

The ship rocked. Untouched wine sloshed over the edges of a goblet. A fresh breeze cleared the stench of incense from the room. He'd not had the security of a room for months and yet, without the fringes of the wild threatening at his heels, Jorah heard the future's screams more loudly.

“Does it have a name?”

Jorah startled, knocking the wine off the table in surprise. There was a child spread across his window like some kind of ocean spider. Lady Stark cocked her head, catching the moonlight before leaping into his room. She must have scaled the outside of the ship – scrambling across precarious ropes at the edge of the waves.

He swore, holding his head with momentary fright. “Thought you were a sea monster.”

“Might be,” Arya replied, swinging into the cabin. She touched down soundlessly, strutting around the sparse room. There wasn't much to it. Any possessions one normally acquired had been lost in the hasty escape from _Meereen_ and subsequent shipwreck. All that he had left were smouldering candles and a strange looking sword. The sword drew Arya closer. “Does it?” she prompted again. He'd not answered her question. “I told you the name of mine.”

“Ah...” Jorah refilled the goblet of wine. “'Snowflake'.”

She seemed to approve of that. “Is it made of ice?”

Odd, how children asked the questions men could not. Jorah watched her reach for the sword's blade. He stopped her, moments before her fingertips intersected the surface. “It burns if you touch it,” he explained, releasing her wrist. Jorah rolled up his sleeve to show her a nasty array of brown lines scorched into his flesh. Her eyes quickly wandered from the scars to the lines of text patterning his skin. It had darkened again, flaring up like a rash. Jorah turned his sleeve down.

This time when Arya reached for  _Snowflake_ , she took it by the lashings of cloth and leather at its hilt. It was heavy, nearly twice as long as  _Needle_ but Arya liked its indifference. The sword was brutal. Eventually she made the knight laugh softly with her play. “Did you learn that in Braavos?”

“It's a water dance,” she held the sword aloft and spun artfully. “My father brought a teacher from Braavos to King's Landing. He was the best swordsman in the world. I'm going to kill the man that killed him.”

Instead of mocking her, Jorah respected that reckless will. “I believe you.” He drank his wine then stepped forward, taking the sword from her and laying it back on the table. She came and sat opposite. Unlike the others on board who wrapped themselves in fur and suede, he and Arya were dressed lightly. Even riding the  _Shivering Sea_ they were a long way from the breath of Winter.

“Can't sleep either...” Arya said, nodding at his untouched bed. “Yours was the only window with light. The rest are asleep.”

“I dream,” Jorah replied, taking another sip. “Not good ones.”

“So I do I. I'm a wolf, running through the forests in the North. Sometimes I find myself back home, sitting on the ruins of Winterfell. I don't understand why but in my dreams its always a pile of blackened rock.”

“You don't know then... Winterfell was destroyed.” He told her about the dragon and the war. Her brother and sister fighting taking her father's place as leaders in the North. She was most taken with the silver dragon and Jorah found himself telling her tales of the queen's three beasts, two of which slipped through the sky outside the window.

“What do you see,” she asked, when he was finished, “when you're dreaming?”

Jorah looked off into the distance – to the moon hung over the waves. “Drowning, mostly,” he replied. “I'm walking over ice fields – endless stretches of what used to be ocean when the Summers lasted a hundred years. I can hear it cracking underfoot, moving with the tide beneath. Then it splits apart. A fissure opens. I fall. The water drags me down and the ice closes over head. There's a pale light above and darkness all around. I'm wrapped in the ocean. Swallowed by its silence. It never ends. I lay there, staring at the light but it fades.”

“And your dreams, are they real – like mine?”

He didn't tell her about the other dream where Daenerys lay in a twin pools of blood, spreading out across the ice like dragon wings, her eyes pale and vacant. “Who can know?” Jorah folded the sword into layers of fabric. After the girl grew tired of his stoic company and crawled back out the window Jorah unravelled the a frightening relic from his robes. He set the black glass candle in the centre of the table. It was lifeless. Cold. Empty like the waters from his dreams.

 

 


	51. Prince of Nothing

 

###  **THE SHIVERING SEA**

Daenerys woke up in a pool of sickly sweet wine. It had dried during the night and was tacky beneath her hands as she pressed body of the floor and lifted her head at the sun. Her hair fell over her face in sad turns of silver. Even the light hurt as it pierced her gaze. _Too much wine_. How like the imp she was becoming. Many rulers drank to excess and for a fleeting moment last night she understood why. The world was crushing in around her. It was as though the edges of the map were folding inward, cutting her off from a once vast expanse into an ever-shrinking point of certainty. _King's Landing._ War. The moment where she would live or die with her conviction.

Success terrified her.

The Iron Throne waited. In her visions it was always black, twisted and burned. She was queen of the ruins. Princess of a smouldering wreck. The molten ranges of _Asshai_ formed her seat of power while her dragons kept guard. They played now, diving in the distance, fishing in the shivering waves where the occasional berg of ice mirrored the sun.

She could not forget the North. Never had she been closer to her nightmares than standing on the edge of the cliff looking over to the frozen shore. Fate planned her return. The snow could bury her bones. Ice holding fire in its tomb. Would she stay like that – preserved through time like one of the screaming faces in the _Weirwood_ trees? She'd rather burn.

No sooner had she found her feet Daenerys fell again, crouching with her head between her knees. The world shifted oddly. Pain throbbed across her forehead. She reached out to the door to steady herself. Someone knocked. She fumbled to the wall beside and opened it.

“Your _Grace_...” Tyrion dropped the second word when he saw the state of her. The queen smelled like a whore den in _Pentos._ Without a thought, Tyrion pushed his way into the room and closed the door, surprised at his own boldness. “Right.” He said, as much to himself as the bewildered queen. “How about we start by sitting.”

Despite his stature, Tyrion was able to navigate the dragon to her bed where she sat wearily on its edge. “Please leave,” she snapped at him but her words lacked venom. “These are my quarters. My _private_ quarters. If I want you here I will – I'll _summon_ you.” She had to fish for words.

“You missed our morning briefing,” he explained, still a little drunk himself. “I was sent in search of you.”

Daenerys was surprised that it had not been Missandei or Jorah... Perhaps the lion really did have all the courage. “What time is it?”

“Later than you think. No – sit. You'll keel over with a face like that. Varys said you drank but -”

“Varys said _what_...”

Oh, there was a flicker of the dragon waking. “Never mind what Varys says.” Tyrion presented her with a cup of water and made her drink. “Another few of these. Drink until that greenish hue fades.” Tentatively he rubbed her back as she canted forward, looking very ill. “It'll pass,” he assured her. “What caused it won't... Unless you wished to talk about it.” She pushed him away. “All right, no talking. We'll just sit here then. Enjoy the sun. Pleasant day on the water, all things considered. That Dornish prince is settling in best he can with Varys trailing his every step and Jorah threatening to throw him to the dragons. His brooding has intensified ten-fold since I last saw him. Sullen creatures – Mormonts. Had a dull boat ride with him once. The high point was being attacked by Stonemen, which tells you all you need to know about the company.”

Daenerys spoke if only to quiet the Lannister. “I've never seen the city,” she whispered. “I know all the stories about the sprawl of civilisation that rears up at the water, ending in the Red Keep, melted into the city wall. A sea-fairing fortress – seat of power, guarded by a coalition of armies. Even _if_ we can take the city without burning it to the ground, conquered people are nest of vipers.”

“Ah...” Tyrion replied, after quite some time spent in contemplation. “You fear the absence of love.” He had never pitied nor envied her more. “I used to walk through the cellars of King's Landing _not_ for the reason you think. They kept the dragon skulls down there, the ones that used to line the throne room. I stood toe-to-toe with the largest of the creatures and marvelled how I might fit inside its jaws. The smallest was the size of my cat who took quite a fondness for curling up on the bones. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine what they might have been like in life, tearing through the skies above the city – nesting on the rocky piles jutting out from the sea nearby. I've always had a fondness for them, you see. Drogon was the first dragon I saw in the flesh.”

“In the fighting pits of Meereen-”

“-no.” He interrupted. “No it was before then. When Mormont and I were sailing through the waters of Old Valyria a dragon emerged from the smoking sky. He glided through the grey expanse, barely moving his wings. I could hear him cutting the air and I thought, _there is the truth of the world_. Dragons are pure. They are violence, power and magic yet we love them knowing full well that when our backs are turned we might be snapped in their jaws. Maybe that's _why_ we love them.”

“Are you trying to tell me I should be ruthless and murderous?”

It was Tyrion's turn to drink the water. “I don't know what I'm trying to tell you,” he confessed. “I'm drunk myself.”

*~*~*

He watched the queen as she crossed the deck of the ship. Daenerys knew the feel of his eyes. Unusual, she thought, that he was sitting by the rail. Normally Jorah made a point to linger as a static pillar. The rolling of the waves did not bother him yet he was paler than the moon.

“Your Grace,” Daenerys addressed the Dornish prince.

“You will like Dorne, I think,” Quentyn picked at a splinter in the ship's rail. He worried it until the wood was smooth again. That's how he liked the world. Safe. Untarnished. Logical. “Six of the seven kingdoms are a web, straining against the wind. The death toll is rising. The bodies are caught in thread, pulling at the little invisible hooks that keep it secured to the tree. Dorne is different. We exist outside the web.”

“Thought not out of sight of the spider...”

Varys paced nearby, taking silent laps around the ship, waiting for his birds to return.

“There are spiders all over the world,” Quentyn shrugged, following her lead. “If you intend to win a war on the capital you will need to launch it on three fronts. Land, sea and air. Dorne holds the gate keys. We know the deserts and mountains that protect the south-western flanks. _We've breached them more than once_.”

“That path takes us directly across the armies of Highgarden and whatever is left of the Baratheons at Storm's End.”

“Lands of the blind, Queen Daenerys. We could slip the whole kingdom by their door and they'd be none the wiser.” The prince turned to the waters and the dragons. He still did not believe what he had seen. “Where are the dragons heading?” They had parted company from the ship and were indistinguishable from common seabirds.

“There are old nesting grounds on the mountains of the Vale. Dragons lust after the sea caves which are impenetrable from the land. If they've not broached those shores yet they'll certainly find homes in them tonight. They must rest and they there is not enough room for them both to roost on the ship.”

“So you know your way around Westeros...”

“I know what I've seen in maps and listened to the stories my council has provided. Many of my advisors have spent their lives in the Western cities.”

“What council did they give surrounding me?”

Daenerys sized up the prince. “That I should marry you,” she said, so easily that Quentyn Martell nearly choked on the salty air. “Align my rule to the kingdom that has, for so long, sought a place on the throne. Am I correct? This is Dorne's great ambition, is it not? Rescue an exiled princess, seat her on the throne and take the kingship as payment for services rendered.”

“And that is what you believe _my_ ambition to be?” He tone was curious, cunning. Not in the least offended by her suggestion.

“No.” The queen surveyed him fiercely. “Marrying me is a risk. Conquest rulers very rarely enjoy permanence on the throne. Even if they live, those that follow from their line are picked off, one by one as the other houses hunger after a crown. Besides,” she tempered somewhat, “it does not suit you.”

“That is quite true,” Quentyn confirmed. Everything about him was overtly perfect, from the crisp folds in his tunic to the matching patterns stitched into their hems. Beneath those were carefully sculpted muscles and an even, tanned hide. He reminded her of an ornate forest peacock, strutting on the forest floor. “Though it is not the reason. Our little birds informed us of what is common knowledge in the East. You cannot bear children. There are no heirs of your line. You'll be the dragon queen, Your Grace, of that there is no doubt but you are the last dragon. Who rules the Seven Kingdoms after you?”

“The law of succession...”

The prince nodded. “We have waited thousands of years for our throne. What's another fifty?” Quentyn could feel the knight's eyes on him too. The sour man looked at him as though imagining an elaborate death. “He loves you fiercely. The knight,” he added, when Daenerys failed to follow. “Devotion like that is difficult to come by in a world where everyone is clawing over each other, climbing into nowhere. He doesn't care for it – does he? The game...”

“Northern men have no need of thrones or crowns,” she replied, turning into the wind to hide the blush on her porcelain skin. Was she as transparent as her knight?

“Good.” Quentyn then presented Daenerys with a woven bracelet adorned with silver and gold charms. It was a promise symbol.

“I thought we agreed not to marry?”

“Oh, we won't,” Quentyn assured her. “The others don't need to know that. As long as they think the deal is sealed they can expend their effort worrying about more important things...”

Daenerys was no fool at all. “You mean, when I am queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I can buy the other houses with land and gold rather than hollow promises of a throne.” She noticed another charm hung around the prince's neck. It was no idle adornment. The pendant was made of knotted dragonglass – a symbol of love. “Who is she?”

The prince re-arranged his robes awkwardly to hide the necklace. “A grain of sand in the desert.”

Daenerys accepted his bracelet, extending her wrist so that he could tie it. “Best you lie and pretend that is from me,” she whispered, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. “If you'll excuse me, I must retire to my rooms to rest.”

“Of course.” He bowed low as the queen left. Her knight was not even attempting to hide his contempt. Absurd man. If only he knew that the queen returned his affections. The prince was not rash enough to come between lovers. Passionate people did unpredictable things. He'd have to make a friend out of the Mormont if he wanted to survive. He started with a friendly nod in Jorah's direction which was returned with a disgusted look as Jorah averted his eyes back to the ocean where the dragons had vanished.

“Careful, with that one...” Varys strolled up toward the prince. He seemed almost surprised that after years of careful planning the Dorish man had materialised – not his original preference but a prince all the same.

“I'm always careful, Varys,” Quentyn collected the pipe he'd left smoking on a barrel beside and took a long drag. “More careful than you, it would appear. That was risky, what you pulled off in Braavos. It is not as you made out to the queen, a city in love with dragons. She was hidden there precisely because it was the opposite. They'll never bow to her – or honour the deals that you think you have struck.”

“The Braavosi don't need to honour anything for long. Long enough... That's all we need.”

“You be careful, Spider, with these games that you play. There's only one dragon and you're walking her into a pit of chaos filled with those who wish her dead.”

“Oh my, is that genuine concern for your future wife?” Varys asked.

“Concern for the realm,” Quentyn was leaving a trail of perfumed smoke on the air. The colours of the world were already brighter to him and the nerves that made his hands shake were quiet. He was steady, at rest with the glimpse of land on the Western shore. The wiles of Westeros. Savage cliffs, awkward harbours and ungodly shorelines festered with sea creatures even the Drowned God had rejected. “We're all on the same side,” he assured the other man. “There are better players than you waiting in Westeros and a line of lords eyeing the throne.”

“What of your progress – have you done as promised?”

“I spent my time in Braavos paying off debts. What you asked for is done. Now we play the only game that matters. If we get there...” he added, nodding to the clutches of grey on the horizon. “We are seamen who bettered the desert, Varys. We bring the waters into our dunes and build beauty for the simple joy of it. The ruins of Chroyane are ancestor to our sprawling Water Gardens. Where water meets dust, life thrives but fire and ice? All you'll see is smoke from their collapse.”

“You leave the North to me,” Varys replied.

Quentyn dragged on his pipe. “Anything further than The Neck is of no interest to Dorne.”

“I heard that the true history of Dorne lies in the collapsing streets of the Shadow City...”

“Oh Varys...” Quentyn relaxed back on the ship's rail, lounging over it as though it were one of his expensive palace couches. “You need to learn to be forgiving of culture's blind eye. We, all of us, select the happiest memories to build on. It would be a sad world indeed if we were trapped by truth.”

*~*~*

Jorah waited many hours before stumbling below deck – stumbling because the ship had run into Northern winds and a choppy stretch of water that shook the vessel roughly from side to side until half the passengers braved the driving rain to lurch their stomachs overboard. The Dornish prince had left the scent of his pipe through the entirety of the lower decks after retreating from the rain. Jorah expected them all to have succumbed into a stupor by morning.

He plucked a lantern from the wall before it had the chance to fall and rested a moment, laying against the hall while a particularly large wave listed the ship. All around he could hear objects slide. Tables, stools, beds and men – anything that wasn't nailed to the oak.

His legs were steady but his brow shone with sweat as he knocked on the queen's door with a trembling hand. She took her time answering. When she did it was with an unusual reluctance. Daenerys shied away from the slither through which Jorah implored.

 _'I'm unwell...'_ she rebuffed, to which he replied, “That would be the wine.” The door opened anyway and Jorah wandered in, taking stock of her state as he laid his lantern on the table. It was pushed against the wall, washed there by the motion of the waves along with most of her possessions. There was wine in the room but she hadn't touched it. The ship's window was closed and an orange cloth draped over it. “You are engaged to the Quentyn Martell.”

It was a statement, not a question. The bracelet was easily visible on her naked wrist. Its charms knocked together as she dragged a chair over. “As you see.”

“The other houses, they won't like it, _khaleesi_. Marriage is one of your most valuable cards. You play it now and-” Her fingers pressed against his lips. For the first time in days, her eyes lifted to his and he saw the truth in them. She was hiding. In this room. On this ship. Hiding like a spider in a web while the threads were laid. There were creatures at the wall, listening. She pointed them out with her gaze.

Jorah made deliberately vague conversation directed at the weather while Daenerys took a quill and scratched out a message. She held the parchment up.

_Trust me._

The words, clear as her eyes. Trust. That's all she asked. The parchment clipped the edge of the flame from Jorah's lantern and curled up, consumed. It dropped into an empty wine goblet and turned to ash.

“Yes, I am in engaged to the prince of Dorne as Varys suggested,” she replied, lying openly for the benefit of the walls. The queen lingered closer to the knight, lightly resting her hand over his. She preferred open war to these games of whispers but they would be playing politics in a jar until they made port. Varys, Tyrion and the prince of Dorne all had ambitions held close to their chest. Daenerys needed to know what those were.

His hands were warm. Always. She'd noticed it in the cave while he'd held her. He shifted ever so slightly, flipping his hand over so that they were palm to palm. They could not say anything with the keen walls lingering on their words.

“As Your Grace wishes,” Jorah kept his voice steady.

 _Not her knight._ His ambitions were hers. His will was hers. “Indeed, it is as I wish.” His jealousy was as good as smoke. Daenerys leaned closer, wishing to brush her lips to his but not trusting herself.

“Go.”

“Yes, _khaleesi_ . Goodnight, _khaleesi_.”

As he left, holding his lantern in the depths of the ship, Jorah came across a forlorn Tyrion ambling from side to side. Were his the ears that his queen feared at her door and if not, what was the Lannister doing wandering alone at this hour?

*~*~*

He coughed at the smoke. “Seven Hells, what is that?” Tyrion muttered then nodded at the sullen Mormont, introduced himself rather firmly with a wall and tumbled into his own room defeated. He must have done something wrong. Tyrion could think of no other reason for Missandei's change of heart. He'd enjoyed their conversations but now the queen was back and Missandei's attention had, quite rightly, shifted focus.

He lifted his glass to the rough seas at his window. Ocean spray wafted in, wetting half his room. It would be a veneer of salt in the morning.

###  **PLAINS OF THE JOGOS NAI - ESSOS**

_'It lounges among the dunes, drowning the low lying land with water too salty to drink. Our number eye it with lust as they drag through the desert. Men. Women. A mass of souls strung up with hope. The false hope of a dragon queen fed by fear. The fear is real. It hunts us across the dunes. We hear them sometimes. Shrikes. Lone wanders from the Eastern lands. Creatures twisted by the arts festering in their soul. One night they'll linger at the edges of our camp. Deformed hands and wretched mouths watered with -'_

 

The parchment was snatched away from the Lorath traveller. It was late in the afternoon. The camp of wanderers had settled on a rise of pink sandstone protruding from the shifting desert. Its crystal-cut surface was a mercy where their tents found purchase. It was a city of animal skin, as fragile as the whispering breeze. At their feet lapped the _Bleeding Sea_ whose waters were clear and devoid of all life except for sprawling flowers that hung deathly still beneath the surface. They were old. Some thrived to the size of mountain bears. Together they formed a crimson pool – a ruby in the skeleton of wasted lands that died on the edge of the map. Beasts separated from the herd screamed as the tribesmen slaughtered them. Others were already on the fire as people broke off into smaller groups to feast.

Bu Gai held the parchment between two fingers as though it were a rock snake. Language was still an issue between the Lorathean and the prince of _Yin_ but they were beginning to form an understanding.

“Birds?” Bu Gai managed in the Common Tongue. They didn't have a thread of speech between them.

The traveller nodded, carefully taking back the parchment. He pointed at the text then toward the red waters to their right so that the prince could understand. Their camp was heading North as the dragon queen commanded. Soon the desert would end where the whispering forests of _Mossovy_ claw their way into the wet, cool lowlands. It marked the very edge of his former enemy, Pol Quo's territories and though he could not express it in words, the man from Lorath could see the fear rising in his eyes.

He was an elegant vision as he moved to sit on the cusp of sandstone and spent the afternoon with the sun at his back. If the cursed people of _Yi Ti_ were following they were far behind. Bu Gai was haunted by memories of his ruined empire and the army of screaming, twisted souls that had consumed them. Thousands of years in unbroken civilisation and it had ended with his rule. Now he marched with foreign people bonded in desperation and his closest ally was a strange man who muttered nonsense to his ravens. He placed his hand over the scar on his stomach. The disease ate away at him, marking his days.

 _'I feel the abyss looking back,'_ the traveller scrawled. _'There are endless vistas, all of them a veil over our eyes. What hides in them are shadows and creatures that feed off the dark. We head toward them, encroaching the edges of their realm. If we make it clear of the desert our next port is the city of Nefer – the Secret City_ . _If I do not write to you again, dear friends, then assume our entrails hang over their gates. Our hearts are powdered in the chalk of necromancers' spells – may their power haunt this wretched place with a fresh hue of whispers.'_

###  **THE SHIVERING SEA**

 

Daenerys pulled back the cloth from her window. A raven from the East ducked in, swooping around the room shedding storm water from its feathers. She cornered it with a handful of shredded bread and waited until it fed before untangling the message from its scrawny leg. She had two silent armies closing on the West – one that braved the frozen, dangerous forests in the North and the other, skirting around the poisoned cities in the South. Against the odds they both progressed, as she knew they would. Her visions never lied.

“Missandei...” Daenerys had been waiting. Her advisor bowed and stepped in, eyeing the raven making itself at home in the queen's quarters. The official birds were kept with Varys meaning whatever correspondence the queen was involved in, she had chosen to keep it private. “Do you see the light?”

“My Lady?”

“To the West – under the storm,” she nodded at the open window. It was dark outside but there was a flicker of white from a lonely castle reaching out into the abyss. “Where the last bolt of light struck. That is where I was born. Dragonstone – a miserable castle perched on a disaster. By all accounts it is a hateful place. I remember-” That wasn't true. She didn't remember a moment of her time inside those walls but she had _seen_ its cold stone arches and shoreline made of bone. “Well, anyway...”

Daenerys was drawn to a glimpse of silver in her robes. “You're armed?”

Missandei pulled her dress over the knife. “I thought it wise, considering where we are headed.”

“Has Grey Worm been teaching you?” It was well meant but stumbled Missandei who looked away.

“I – a little.”

The queen's interest drifted to the storm. These waters teamed with trading craft, none of which paid the slightest attention to them now that they flew the official _Braavosi_ banners. It was alarming to realise that so many comforts of the realm depended on the vessels writhing helplessly at the whim of the Drowned God.

“When we arrive in the Stepstones things will move fast,” she warned “We take the fleet of Unsullied to Dorne along with the remaining Dothraki. Settle them. Feed the men and beasts and then they must march.”

“What of your ships?” Missandei asked. “To win King's Landing you must hit from the sea.”

“Most of our ships will be sailed by Dornish men. I want you to go with the Unsullied, across the mountains.”

“Your Grace...” she protested. “Surely my place is with you?”

“I need someone I can trust to keep an eye on the Martell prince – someone with diplomatic skill who isn't inclined to murder him in a jealous rage,” she added. “We'll meet at King's Landing.”

“What about the girl?”

“The Stark girl? What of her?”

“Nothing only, I've been looking after her since we left Braavos and I thought...”

“Jorah is taking her to Winterfell. It's a matter of honour. The girl stays with us.”

*~*~*

Jorah faced the glass candle, staring into its black heart for hours on end. The ship rocked. The storm growled and scratched at the wood. It remained untouched by the world, shrouded in magic.

“What is it?” Arya asked, sitting opposite.

“A doorway that cannot be guarded. Did your maester in Winterfell teach you about magic?” Arya nodded at the knight's question. “Well, this is a magical thing. There used to be dozens of them in the world. They are similar to the Weirwood trees that grow in our lands. Those with magic can use them to communicate.”

“We don't have any magic,” Arya pointed out dryly.

“No, we don't. Even if we did, Northern magic is different from Eastern spells.”

“How do we tell if it's broken?”

Jorah laughed, shaking his head. “I saw the queen light it. She has magic.”

“I thought those things on your arm were magic...”

He rolled his sleeve up slightly, eyeing the words etched in the queen's blood. “You are right,” Jorah nodded. “The queen used blood magic but such things are very risky – there is always a price to it. The gods are unreasonable. They rejoice in ransoming mortals for brief moments of life. My advice is to stay as far away from the realms of magic as you can, Arya Stark. Whatever you think it's given you, it'll take something back. If it's only your life then you are lucky. I think about it every day – wondering what this magic will take as payment for my life.”

“There was magic in Braavos...” she started to reply, remembering her blindness from the waters in _The House of Black and White_. “At least, I heard that too. You hear a lot of things on the street.” There was a pause. Arya watched the black candle, dipping her head as though she were a wolf on the prowl, stalking the wastelands of ice. “Are you really going to take me home?”

“Aye,” Jorah promised. “I owe your father that much. Do you want to know a secret?” The girl nodded. “There was a time when your father could have killed me but he chose mercy. That kindness is something I wish to repay but for the sake of everyone else, let's just call it, 'honour'. You understand?”

*~*~*

The candle tipped, falling across the table where it bled wax and flame. Varys startled. The sudden glow of fire died in an instant leaving him in the pitch. His eyes adjusted. Fragments of light flared under the storm, illuminating the ashes on his desk. He reached down, snapping the piece of parchment from the freshly cooled wax. The words were clear. A warning from his new friends in _Braavos._

He swore at all seven hateful gods then went to rouse the imp.

Tyrion was enormously put out by the spider at his door in the dead of night. “It's late,” he complained. “No – early. Far too early, Varys. Your whispers won't die in the night.” Varys didn't wait for permission before forcing his way into the room – followed by Jorah Mormont. “Bugger the gods, what's he doing here?”

“Quiet...” Jorah warned the Lannister. “Listen before you curse us into a watery grave. None of that.” Jorah set the wine on the top shelf, out of reach.

“All right... Speak.”

“We have a serious problem.” Varys addressed them, circling the tiny room. “At Braavos we took on more than legal documents and a Northern orphan. Have you heard of the Faceless men?”

“The assassins that can – do the thing with the face?”

“The most dangerous killers in _any_ kingdom. They trade identities like we wear clothes. It seems as if one of the Iron Bank's men was not on board with out peaceful conquest of Westeros. Tycho writes to warn us that the following information was sourced during torture. A member of the assassins' order of Faceless Men boarded our vessel before we departed the Purple Harbour. Whoever it is, they've been paid by a breakaway faction of loyalists to kill the dragon queen and her pending rule – to which they object.”

“If they are such good assassins then why isn't she dead?” Tyrion asked the obvious question more bluntly than he meant. “Sorry – I just, we've been at sea for days.”

“These men, they wait until the right moment. It's how they work. They'll smile and bow for years if they're asked and plunge a knife through your back in the first second of the hour.”

“We have no way of knowing when that particular hour is...”

“How do we kill them?” Jorah spoke, ready to stalk from one end of the ship to the next.

“How do we _find_ them...” Varys corrected.

“What about the prince?”

“Too vane,” Varys paused in front of Tyrion. “If there's a Faceless Man on board he'll be keeping to the shadows. That's how they prefer to work. Ghosts, all of them. Famously vaporous. They target people without personal relations. Mimicking someone is one thing – knowing them intimately is beyond the means of men that have departed any measure of 'personal'.”

Arya stuck to the outside of the ship, her arms and legs balanced on the heavy ropes. She'd been trained to listen – to gather intelligence – anything to help her complete her kill. When the spider rushed through the corridors in the middle of the night, Arya moved directly to the deck. She could hear them now. Her secret was out. They knew that she was on board. It was only a matter of time until they discovered her rouse. She gripped the rope as her heart raced against her rib cage. The rain was falling harder, running off her eyelashes like water from the leaves of the _Godwood_.

“We stay calm,” Varys insisted, resuming his pace.

Tyrion began to sober. “By your reasoning, Varys, it could be anyone including the people in this room.”

“Well I know it's not me,” Varys started, “and it can't be you. Their mastery of illusion is not perfect. They can't take a man and pass him off as an imp – your size, for once, is your greatest asset.”

“And _him_?”

They turned to Jorah in unison.

“Even _if_ one of them managed to kill him, no one living can replicate a Mormont scowl. I thought he was going to rip the throat out of our new Dornish friend.”

Jorah wasn't sure if he was meant to take that as flattery. “So what – we search the ship? We don't even know what we're looking for.”

“Whomever it is, they'll be keeping watch. That's what we look for. Someone with keen eyes.”

###  **STEPSTONES – BETWEEN THE NARROW AND SUMMER SEAS**

The bulk of the queen's fleet was lashed together in the grasp of a hidden harbour. Together, the ships rose and fell with the waves like one great expanse of oak and iron wood. The Unsullied had strung the sails across them in one enormous shade cloth giving a measure of protection to the thousands of souls left wandering the brutal, grim world within the _Stepstones_.

While the Unsullied manned the boats, the _Dothraki_ roamed the rocky shores, catching gulls and snatching their eggs. Sometimes they brought back seal meat which they roasted on fires cut into the rock. It was a vile existence, like being marooned. Every now and then a foreign vessel stuck its nose in their direction. Like rats, they hid away and waited for it to pass.

Grey Worm liked to walk the outskirts of the harbour. Wearing scraps of his armour, his already tanned skin had darkened from weeks in the sun. He carried a satchel, filling it with crabs, molluscs and snails. Anything to feed the desperate fleet. The horses were mostly rib. The _Dothraki_ did what they could but nothing grew out of the rock. If the queen's ship did not return soon, they would have to break with the harbour and make sail for Dorne without her or die where they stood.

It struck him suddenly, standing on the unforgiving ridge of rock that bounded the fleet from the rough waters, how fragile the divide between _everything_ and _nothing_ was.

###  **CITADEL – OLD TOWN**

Sam liked to imagine the city in various stages of decay. As he gazed over the chaotic rise of mismatched buildings he thought only of the vines creeping through the first layer of brick. Occasional sprays of white flowers distracted from the horror of being consumed alive – living off the corpse of _Old Town_ before it had died. One day, when the gods had their vengeance of the living, this would be nothing more than a curious shore, festering with gulls who made their nests in the thousand window sills.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

Sam pulled away from the window of Marwyn's office. “We were never really sure,” he lied, shrugging. “It wasn't much, you see... Just this old Night's Watch cloak with spear heads like the ones you've got in the cabinets outside.”

Marwyn was silent, lingering by the door of his office, surrounded by shelves full of hideous objects. It was with a deep sigh that he finally replied, “Still an appalling liar. For a man like you it is safer to keep your mouth shut. Since you didn't – why don't you follow me?”

He vanished into the hall leaving Sam dumbfounded, one hand on the window sill – damp with rain. Marwyn's head reappeared around the corner of the room. “That means follow.”

*~*~*

“Where are we going?” Sam asked, as Marwyn led him deep into the heart of the building. The stone and blonde brick eventually gave way to raw-cut stone. It was black, soaked in some form of sickly oil that coated his hands when he accidentally brushed against them.

“Hideous, isn't it?” He said, seeing Sam wipe his hands on his new maester robes.

“What is it?”

“No one's really quite sure. There are outcrops of it all over the world – usually in the oldest seats of civilisation. The base of the Hightower is made of the same thing. Whatever was here before this sprawl of academia must have been important. Ironic, isn't it?”

“What is?” Sam replied, with a good natured frown.

“That there is more knowledge locked in these walls than anywhere else in the world and yet we know nothing of our own fold in history. It's all a rouse, you see – knowledge. We hoard it as though quantity equated meaning. Here...” They entered another series of locked rooms, each more secure than the last. “You know that's not true.”

“I do. I mean – do I?” Sam wasn't entirely sure what he was agreeing with – if it was a compliment, accusation or trap. Maybe it was all of them.

“The old dragon at Castle Black. He spent a great deal of time squirrelling things away. Mostly the shelves were full of scraps. I remember them, the unsteady piles of faded scrolls. Dust. That's what always struck me. When you've spent so many years in the company of books you grow accustomed to the layer of time that coats everything but in the North there's nothing to fall except the snow.”

“You've been to Castle Black?”

“Oh yes. More than once,” Marwyn dragged out another set of keys from the folds of his robes and unlocked the next door. There was a sequence of strange _clicks_ as something mechanical started two twist and drag against the inner walls. "Puzzle-box locks – famous in the deserted cities of Essos. Only a few were ever crafted in Westeros. One in the palace at _King's Landing_. It was found in the old part of the city and so they were forced to build on top of it. Haven't you ever wondered why the city is so poorly laid out? No. I suppose not. You are from the North.”

Sam's nerves started to twitch as the door opened and a freezing breath of air escaped. It smelled like dust after the rain. “And – the others?” he asked cautiously.

“Well, here of course,” Marwyn touched the door affectionately as they entered, “and in the Shadow City of Dorne.” Before they proceeded, Marwyn waited for the door to lock.

“It's cold down here.” The many torches in flame against the wall struggled to keep a hold of life. It was like they were stifled by the air or something living in it. “Oh... Is that dragonglass?” Sam leaned closer to the walls which now gleamed like a tunnel of mirrors covered in frost. “What's down here?”

“A souvenir of war. It used to be kept in the Hightower but I had it moved for protection.”

“I don't understand...”

“I know where you've been Tarly. I can read it in your eyes. People are different after they've seen one in the flesh. It's like looking at death. The experience marks you. Lord Commander Snow sent you here for the truth well, I have some truth for you.”

They turned the next corner together. The temperature dropped sharply. Sam could see his breath in the air, dying with the faint light of the torches. It was deathly cold. There was more to it – Sam could feel it in his throat, stealing his breath before his lips could part. He'd only felt that once before, huddled behind a boulder in the middle of a snow field at the edge of the world.

Sam knew exactly what waited for him around that corner.

 


	52. Box of Fire

 

###  **CITADEL – OLD TOWN**

Sam backed away from the prison cell. Its bars were cast from dragonglass crafted into impossible threads, gnarled like the wax of expired candles pooled in  _Old Town's_ sprawling library. They  _dripped_ infinitesimally slow, the walls too. A box of fire frozen solid. It would have been stunning if it weren't such a horrifying thing to look upon.

A creature waited inside. Its frost-kept skin took in the weak hues of torchlight and reflected them back ten fold. It was flesh. Ice. Something other than human. Whatever it was, Sam's skin crawled at the sight.

“How do you like my secret, Tarly?” Marwyn brandished a sadistic grin while the ghoul lingered, motionless in the confines of its hell.

The dragonglass was dusted in frost, chilled by its presence. Flickering light from the torches on the wall beside accentuated the archmaester's rotund figure. His breath was heavy with port and he smelled of spice, fresh from the whore dens. If he felt even an ounce of Sam's fear, Marwyn hid it perfectly behind a reverberant chuckle.

“Rather good – isn't it...” he continued, stalking up to the bars. Marwyn tilted his head at the willowy creature. Starved of strength it was a rake of ice guarded by leather armour. The insignias pressed into the hide had been worn away while a deep cut ran diagonally across its torso from an ancient battle. “I've often thought about placing it inside one of the glass displays upstairs – brandishing it for the Seven Kingdoms to gasp at. That is what most seem to think history is for, _casual entertainment_. Let me assure you, the maesters do not keep Old Town's library for anything so trivial.”

Sam slammed his eyes shut. His mind filled with the sound of a dead army marching through the snow. The rush of ice-logged air scratching over the rock where he'd hidden himself in a moment of desperate folly. Flesh pealed off one of their horses. When it breathed, the ivory ribs came apart and Sam saw through the corpse to the black mountains behind. He gasped. When he opened his eyes he found the Whitewalker centred in the cage, watching. Could it see inside his mind? Sam felt it in there... Unravelling his fears.

“They don't say much,” the archmaester added. “I doubt mimicking our speech is possible with their form. A few times I've heard the sound of ice splitting apart. If you've ever stood near a glacier about to slide into the sea–”

“I have.”

“–well, that's how they communicate, near as I can tell. I am certain they understand us. Guard your words.”

“H-how long has it been here?” Sam's throat went dry. The words stuck, dragging their way into his mouth. He wanted to gag.

“Particularly here? Eleven years. I had it moved from the Hightower vaults. According to my old friend it has spent the better part of two centuries locked in the dark confines of that useless lump of rock. He got quite a shock when he found it hidden away down there, as you can imagine. Fell over – cut his leg real nasty. Poor old man. Ice monsters from the depths of nightmares are not the family heirloom most seek to inherit.”

“But how did it get _here_?”

“Leyton wondered the same thing. It fuelled his obsession. Years of enquiry revealed papers of purchase by his great-grandfather from a trader in Qarth. The trail ends there but there were rumours in the East that it was captured near Asshai in the dawn days but alas, those aren't questions one can ask without attracting a great deal of unwanted attention.” Marwyn had spent longer than he'd meant to filtering through the twisted sprawl of _Asshai_ looking for answers. All he'd found in that stricken place were songs of death.

“No. I imagine not.” The Whitewalker's eyes were the shade of a winter rose, rambling over _The Wall_. Its features were chiselled, sharp and pale. “They're all different...” Sam whispered.

Marwyn leaned a fraction closer. “Go on...”

“The one I saw, in the snow... It was- well _taller_. How can they be different?”

“Because they were once men.” His voice trailed off into the darkness. “If ever proof was required that magic can be a curse, it stands before you.”

“Magic is your life-”

“Look at it carefully,” he insisted firmly. “See this creature for what it is – neither living nor dead.”

Sam disagreed. They were a species. As he approached the bars he was captured by those clear eyes. There was life in them – a ferocity that only the farthest reaches of the North might know. The creases in its face could have been the folds of a mountain range, thrust out of the the ice. They wanted something from the living.

“My friend he – he stared at it for hours, looking into those eyes as you do now, sitting in the dark as though that would help unravel the mysteries of the dead. Madness lies that way. This thing in front of us is _unknowable_. The answers don't exist. I know. I've searched.” He reached up, placing his hand reassuringly on Sam's shoulder. “What did you find in the snow, Tarly?” He carefully re-asked his question, hoping that the presence of death hovering a breath away might terrify him into honesty.

“Dragonglass...” Sam whispered. “An old cape – as I said. Whitewalkers....” Sam fell into distraction. “The men of the Night's Watch had a great many stories about them. Whispers passed on from the rangers that you try not to hear and _if_ you hear them you make certain to forget soon as you can.”

“And did you?”

“What?”

“Forget the stories?”

Sam shook his head. “When you're standing on that wall of ice looking North the stories are all you can think of. Those words never make it South. I used to believe the stories were spread about to scare us into bravery. I was very easy to scare.”

“I can imagine.”

“Not with stories, though. I was petrified of fighting. First day at The Watch I was so bad no one wanted spar with me. No bigger insult than that but my father beat them to it. He used to bring special masters of sword to Hornhill when I was young.”

“A wise man he is not.”

“None of them could save my lack of talent from disgrace. The day I left he made me stand in front of our family sword and told me all about the warriors in our family and how they'd carried the bloody thing from field to field, never touching it of course. They always had soldiers to do the killing for them.” A _Valyrian_ sword like Jon's. “Only one man in my house deserved that sword but being able to fight didn't keep him alive.”

Sam leaned closer to the bars. He could hear it now – a soft, cracking sound in the air. A heavy snow bending forest pines. It made him second guess every forest whisper.

“That didn't matter, you know, when it came down to it – the fear, I mean. I killed a Whitewalker with one of those dragonglass fragments.” Sam watched Marwyn's eyes darken with satisfaction and the creature shift. Finally, he's surprised the archmaester. “It shattered into a rain of snow under the blade. One moment it was an impenetrable tower of terror and an instant later it was gone. You could kill this one just as easy... We should.”

Marwyn turned to face the Whitewalker. “You don't want to end up a pile of ice on the floor... Interesting. I wonder, do you fear death or simply avoid it to further your cause? What must it be like, abandoned on the field of war, left to endure forever in the dungeons of the enemy. Does the heat get to you? It's been a long summer... I can't say that I feel anything for you. If the records we have of the last war are correct, your kind, your  _magic_ very nearly brought about the end of the world. You are the night and we are the dawn...”

“We're nothing to it,” Sam shook his head and walked away. “You've got to kill it, Marwyn.”

“No.”

“You're crazy keeping that thing locked up here. How do you know it's not sharing all of this with the others in the North?”

“From in this cell?”

“They're creatures of magic. Who knows what they can do. Maybe it whispers to the wind.”

“It won't learn anything useful from down here,” Marwyn replied darkly, “but we learn from it – every breath it draws gives us more than we knew yesterday. There's a war coming, Tarly. You know it. I know it.” He paused, lingering one last time on the creature. “And it certainly knows. Come on.”

Together they left the vaults and the building, emerging onto the streets of  _Old Town_ . It was another perfectly miserable day with a smear of drizzling rain hovering over the city, washed in from the ocean. Trapped under a bank of clouds, most of the light came from the  _Hightower_ . The poets called it a 'second sun' – they weren't wrong.

Marwyn was more comfortable in the bustling streets. He weaved through the crowds like a sea-snake until they found a quiet place near the docks where shrieking gulls gathered as company.

“I was hoping that you'd tell me,” Marwyn admitted, when they were settled. “You're a passable liar, not a terrible one but I had one advantage you were unaware of.”

Sam turned, trying to hold is nerve but it was difficult.

“I already knew what you found.” Sam fidgeted under Marwyn's words. “You think it's dangerous having one of those creatures in a cell? That's _nothing_. Nothing _at all_ compared to what you dragged out of the ice. You should have bloody buried it, you fool. No one was meant to find that. Not me. Not you. Certainly _not them_. Where is it now?”

“I-” Sam involuntarily shifted his gaze toward the room he shared with Gilly.

“Fuck the seven gods! You brought it here.”

“Listen to me very carefully,” Marwyn dropped his voice to a whisper. “You've got to bury that horn somewhere safe – somewhere outside temptation where it can slip away the aeons. It's a fail safe no one is meant to have. Don't tell me – I don't want to know. Just _get rid of it._ ”

The archmaester stood up. Sam reached out impulsively, grabbing onto his sleeve to stall him. “How can I trust you?”

“We're fighting on the same side, Tarly. I didn't waste my whole life in the study of magic to pull a few tricks in front of peasants. There's only one war. We're standing on the brink, tilting toward the abyss. I've looked into that void. Asshai is a ghost of the past and shadow of our future. We've nowhere to run. That's why I took you in.”

Then he was gone – vanished into the sea of souls suffocating the city. Sam was left with the sound of waves crashing at the wall. Again. Again. Again... A continuous assault wearing away the rock until the inevitable crumble into the depths.

*~*~*

Gilly broke away from the tourist party as they circled the main balcony of the  _Hightower_ . She stopped, tilting her head all the way back until she caught a glimpse of the eternal flame burning at its top. The soft mist of rain stuck in her eyelashes until they coagulated into false tears.

She could feel the weight of the horn in her robes as she entered the building. Where better to hide a relic but in a vault full of them?

###  **THE SHIVERING SEA**

 

They walked the ship. Tyrion carried half a bottle of wine, pretending to stumble from rail to rail – lingering near a few barrels to take in the view of a storm raging along the distant coast. Varys remained beneath, moving within the hallways carrying a single lantern. That left Jorah brooding at the bow where the weather was at its worst. He couldn't risk arousing suspicion with armour or sword which left him with a hunting knife and dagger, clipped into his belt.

His eyes raided the shadows. There were anywhere between four and eight sailors on deck at any moment with another in the nest. He watched closely as they scampered against the rain, leaping over dancing ropes caught in the wind. They were trying to keep the sails steady, too much sheet and the ship listed in the storm – not enough and they stagnated in the waves and risked being thrown at its violence.

He felt the ship climb another wave then roll into the swell. The waters were black except for the occasional flare of light from the belly of the storm which picked out frothing crests of salt. That's when he noticed a deckhand rolling sails. It was nothing really. The young man had the proper weathered look about him and returned the standard calls of the other sailors with the same Eastern inflection but...

Jorah left his position and strolled a fraction closer. _Yes_. It was as Varys said. This sailor watched the others paying no mind to the storm. He'd glanced half a dozen times in Jorah's direction already.

Tyrion wasn't far. Jorah edged toward him while keeping one eye on the sailor. The sailor watched, looking up more frequently from his work. Jorah paused again, leaning over the rail for a while until the sailor's attention wandered. Tyrion noted Jorah's approach and helped until they met in front of an anchor. Tyrion wrapped his arm around the iron creation as though it were a lover.

“You make a convincing drunk...” Jorah growled at the air.

Tyrion took a swig from his bottle. “I _am_ drunk.”

That was probably true. “You see him?”

“Folding sails? Yeah. I see him.” Tyrion slumped further. “Could be nothing.”

“Faceless assassins are bad news,” Jorah assured him. “Some of the men I fought beside encountered Faceless Men in Norvos. If you want something dead you won't find a better sword.”

“What happened?”

“What do you think...” Jorah allowed that to linger. “They can't be reasoned with because their minds are poisoned by senseless ideology. Without humanity they've nothing to fear. No hesitating. Kill him if you can.”

“That's me dead then,” Tyrion hiccuped awkwardly. “A sizeable gull could pick me off.”

“Tyrion, I want you to find Varys. Tell him what's up here. Go. Now.”

Tyrion nodded – slapped Jorah roughly on the back and headed for the lower deck. Jorah kept his eyes on the sailor who dutifully focused on the cloth beneath his hands, folding it over and over but at the very last moment he broke cover to mark Tyrion's descent.

Jorah carefully slid his hand between his robes, feeling for the blade's hilt. He decided to approach the man. “Storm's getting worse.” Jorah announced his presence, standing a few feet from the sailor. Only the lowest masts escaped the fog. They traversed from one edge of darkness to the other. Beyond those, a few swaying halos of light from the ship's lanterns.

“Yes. Yes storm bad.” The sailor replied through a thick Ghiscari accent.

“Smoke?” Most of the men did.

“Not with rain,” the man pointed at the sky. “Bad for weed. Burn not well. Later.”

That answer proved nothing. Jorah sat down on a nearby barrel, waiting for Varys and Tyrion to emerge. As he waited, the weather settled. In response the crew naturally thinned to continue their card games. “Where are you from?”

“Meereen,” the sailor replied.

“Before that, I mean.”

“Ghaen. Slavers came. I grew up on sea. Then Meereen. Dragon queen came and now – sail.”

He looked like a he was from _Ghaen_. Those were people of the old world – escaped from the deserts and built themselves and empire out of the sand itself only to have it melted in a storm of dragon fire. Not a natural breeding ground of loyalty for the queen but life in the hands of Meereenese slavers was fresher in the mind. History was such a mess of conflicting loyalty. How else could Jorah explain himself? A Northern man with a Southern queen. Perhaps he was just a sailor... Curiosity wasn't proof of guilt.

“How long until we reach the rest of the fleet?” Jorah asked.

“Three days,” he replied. The cloth of the sail moved between his fingers with a mechanical finality. Every movement was perfect. The sea fogged thickened. As it swept across the deck. Their world condensed until it was only Jorah, the sailor and the sheet between his fingertips.

_No. Something didn't settle with Jorah._ Instinct had kept him alive this long. He wrapped his hand around the top of his dagger. The sailor started to whistle. His song slipped through the mist, haunting it with the mournful sound.  _To hesitate is death._ Jorah was certain. He gripped his dagger. Slid it from its sheath. The sailor noticed. For the briefest second calloused fingers missed a fold. _So they both knew_ .

“Arya!” Jorah and the sailor paused as the young girl emerged from the fog. “Go back below deck,” Jorah continued firmly. “There's a storm out here.”

The girl was already wet through. “I don't mind.”

“Arya – _now_.”

“You're out in it,” she protested. Arya stopped when she locked eyes with the knight. He was trying to convey urgency with those pale shells. She looked to the sailor and in the flashes of storm light, caught the edge of a scar running under his chin, hooking at the top of his neck. The edge of a face. Her eyes lifted back to Jorah – afraid.

“Downstairs.” Jorah repeated firmly.

“No...” she reached for _Needle_.

“Arya – do as I...” Jorah was cut short by rush of movement. Beneath him the sailor sprung to life, withdrawing a tapered weapon from his belt. He caught a glint of it against the rain before the blade came towards him, tilting just enough to slice between his ribs. Jorah arched instinctively, almost missing the knife. It cut through his shirt and a fraction of flesh.

*~*~*

Daenerys stumbled from the window. She gripped her torso, shifted, then removed her hand to find a curve of red bleeding from her dress. Puzzled, Daenerys unravelled the folds of fabric. There was a shallow tear in her stomach. She flinched as the pain caught up. 

*~*~*

Jorah looked down but there was no mark on his skin to account for the smear of blood on his shirt. The sailor stood before him, knife in hand.

“So, you are one of them.”

“One of whom?” The assassin dipped his head like an animal hunting. Those eyes were as sharp as his blade. “I am no one at all.”

“Exactly.” Jorah lunged. The assassin was fast but not enough to avoid Jorah entirely. His knife sank into the flesh on his shoulder and as soon as it was set, Jorah twisted it, carving out a tunnel of severed sinew. Arya circled them. Her tiny sword swirled in the mist with the elegance of a Water Dancer. Jorah's distraction cost him. The next thing he felt was the assassin's knife in his thigh, biting deep. Jorah howled, shoving the assassin off with all his strength.

Blades slid out of flesh. The assassin tripped over the girl and fell into the sail he'd been folding earlier. A silver coin slipped from his clothes and rolled across the deck. Arya had not struck yet. Her attention moved between the two men. The knight was coming in again, dragging a second weapon from his belt. He had the advantage and was driven by a furious determination. The choice was made for her. If Arya did nothing, they'd both die.

“Stop...” Arya levelled her sword under the assassin's chin before he could stand. The cold edge of the sword stilled him. Small but made to kill. The man beneath her blade look toward Arya and _smiled_.

“A girl has a lovely sword,” he said, as Jorah's knives plunged into his chest. The assassin arched, choking on a rush of blood sweeping through his throat. It dribbled out the corner of his mouth, staining the edge of _Needle_.

Arya was struck silent by the words. It couldn't be  _him_ . Gentle rain fell on  _Needle_ . She watched the droplets form and run along its edge. Beneath, blood diluted into a pale smear on the sail.

Arya was pulled back by a slender pair of arms. Missandei held the girl while Tyrion and Varys gathered beside Jorah, late to the violence.

“All right?” Tyrion asked.

Jorah pressed his palm over the knife wound in his leg. It barely hurt. “Fine. What's he doing?”

Varys knelt beside the dying assassin. Terrible noises came out of him – gasps that didn't quite make it into breath. Death was horrific. Varys placed his hand over the man's face. The assassin's eyes watched. It was all he could do as his body shut down. As Varys dragged his hand downwards, the assassin's face tore off to reveal another laying beneath. Jorah and Tyrion were transfixed as the empty skin was discarded. Varys did it again, revealing face after face until the final breath ended and the magic failed.

“You see...” Varys whispered. “They are no one at all.” The lifeless faces were piled up on the deck. He stepped away when the man was dead. “There'll be more after this,” Varys warned. “Once a name is given to their god the owner of that name must die. Have rocks tied to his ankles then throw him over the side. Burn the faces.”

The rest of the sailors hung from the perches, silent. Blood ran over the deck fading as rain replaced the mist. Jorah threw the assassin over the side while Tyrion watched – his bottle of wine abandoned. The imp couldn't stomach the thought of his senses numbed while faceless creatures hunted. The body parted the waters then closed instantly, as if the assassin had never existed. Now he truly was  _no one_ .

“How's your leg?” Tyrion asked.

Jorah had forgotten. He pulled the fabric aside but there was no wound. Twice now. He covered it quickly before Tyrion could see. “I'll live,”he replied.

“Typical bloody Northerner. Your arm could be hanging off before you noticed. Are you going to tell the queen?”

*~*~*

“Here, give me this...” Missandei tried to ease the sword from Arya's hold but it was like ice. “At least come out of the rain.”

All Arya could do was watch as the rain cleaned the deck. “I like the rain,” she insisted. Her heart raced inside her chest. All this time there'd been another one on board – another creature like her and she'd not even noticed. For a moment Arya thought it might be  _him_ . She'd panicked as the faces fell away, terrified that she would see  _his_ . It was a childish fear. She knew very well that the man who trained her did not own that face but the thought of seeing it lifeless in a pool of blood... Not even her nightmares took her there.

Arya gripped her sword. She had to remember  _why_ she was on this ship. It wasn't about going to  _Winterfell_ . For a brief period she'd allowed the fantasy of  _home_ to wash away her purpose.

“I like it too,” Missandei interrupted the girl's thoughts. “But standing out in it all night might end your journey sooner than you think.”

Arya slid  _Needle_ into its sheath. “As you like,” she replied coldly. Obedience would better suit her cause.

*~*~*

She tore the material violently, ripping it into strips. Daenerys tipped a bottle of  _Dothraki_ alcohol over the bleeding wound on her thigh and bit back a moan. It was torture, exactly as she imagined fire felt curling back the skin. She took the bandage and wrapped it firmly over the wound. It bled through as fast as she could layer it.

Quaithe warned her there would be a price. The runes on Jorah's skin saved his life, now it appeared, they had done something more.

With the bleeding staunched Daenerys stopped and gripped the edge of her bed. She looked down at the bloody floor.

A knock at the door.

Daenerys gathered up the sheets on her bed and threw them onto the deck, soaking up the blood and alcohol.

_'Your Grace...'_

Jorah. She kicked the pile under the bed and tossed blankets over everything.

_'It's urgent.'_

“I'm coming.” There was a dressing gown tossed in one corner. She retrieved it, tying the lavender robe around herself. It hid the bandage. The smell of alcohol lingered but with half the ship writing her off as a drunkard these past few days, it was of no matter. She crossed the room and opened the door. “News?”

Jorah lingered as he so often did. “There was an assassin on board the ship, posing as one of the sailors. He's dead. You are not surprised?”

“It is not exactly the first time someone has tried to kill me, Jorah. Were they acting alone?”

“We believe so. Paid by a rogue member of the Iron Bank. I think you might have ruffled a few feathers during you brief stay in Braavos.”

“There'll be a lot more assassins waiting for me in Westeros, of that I am sure. Once news spreads of a coup they won't bother hiding in my ranks, they'll come right for us with armies.” She could tell that he was distracted, probably by the stench of liquor. “I spilled it – in the storm.”

“Of course,” he replied, too quickly.

“Is everyone all right?”

“I – yes. We're fine. Why?”

Daenerys reached through the threshold, brushing her fingertips over his soaked shirt where there was a thin stain of blood that mimicked her wound.

“A scratch,” Jorah assured her.

She thought about telling him then but knew that she couldn't. In her dreams she'd seen Jorah embroiled in battles that had no yet come to pass. If she told him he'd never partake for fear of hurting her. To tell him could change the future tide. It was too much to risk and she had no right to gamble with fate.

“I'm going to get some rest,” she said quietly. “Could you ask Missandei to come by to braid my hair?”

Jorah thought nothing of the request. He bowed, murmured his 'good nights' and left.

 


	53. Bloodstone

 

###  **NIGHTFORT – THE NORTH**

Dacey Mormont gazed at churning skies. Razors of light flickered silently in their depths, clasping at madness while she lay broken on the _Black Gate's_ frosted iron _._ Barely an ember pressed against the snow, walls of ice stretched either side as far as she could see. To her right, the glistening barrier curved, following an ancient rise in the land that might have been a mountain. The forest, once green, was now entirely hidden by freshly fallen snow. Pines creaked under the weight. Some snapped, tumbling into oblivion.

“Let me in...” she whispered, unable to find her breath. It was snatched away by the cold along with most of her strength. Dacey lifted her hands, watching them vibrate. Even her tears froze before they could fall. “P-please...”

There were no gods to hear her prayers this far North. If they had ever existed, the ancient ones were sleeping, ambivalent to the torment of men. It wasn't death that troubled her. Dacey knew death – had looked into its smiling eyes a thousand times. It was the living after that terrified her. Corpses risen from their tombs had been set back upon the snow. Snatched by beckoning hands. Such unnatural torment. What form of mad deity sanctioned their corruption? Were there gods older and darker than hers that laughed in the face of death? If so, who had the courage to pray to them...

In truth, she knew that too. The things she'd seen...

Trembling, Dacey dragged herself from the ground and turned to the door. She beat on it again, pleading with the heartless surface until her face pressed against the nicks of arrows and swords. Nothing. Abandoned, as she remembered. A castle of ghosts like all the rest. The dead guarding the dead.

That left two passages South and both felt impossibly far from where she stood. If only she could fly like the ravens and pass over _The Wall –_ dance with the storm as she did in her dreams.

With no choice, Dacey headed East toward _Castle Black._ If the old bear was still alive, he'd let her in. Mance was right. There were things the Night's Watch needed to know if they intended to stand their ground and fight the dead.

###  **THE SUMMER SEA**

A gale tore between _New_ and _Old Ghis._ Funnelled in from the _Gulf of Grief_ , the winds rippled, rising and falling in unique tides that confused the sails. The white sheets hung loose one moment and strained against their ropes the next. It was nauseating. The pirate fleet weathered it, fixed on deck with their eyes to the sea and the fear of its gods heavy in their hearts. There wasn't a man on the water that didn't whisper to the _Drowned God_ – offer up promises as the waves itched at their ships. Those bound to the land could never understand the power of the waves – the great ferocity and anger swelling in the depths that licked at every shore. Their islands of rock existed at his will yet they mocked and dismissed the watery god.

The oldest stories; older than the First Men, older than Children's songs, older than the Dawn – these stories were of the creatures that lived beneath the water with their dark gods. Things that once walked the world and later, having had their fill of man and his troubles, sunk back into the depths to palaces built of filthy black stone. Silent. Unknownable. A terrible thing waiting for flesh fresh from the sun. Some outposts remembered. The people of _The Thousand Islands_ whose blood had mixed with water. The Iron Born and their precarious castles, strung out over the ocean in temptation of the waves.

The sailors of the world were one people. Pirates. Traders. Iron Born. Adventurers. It made no difference. They were all at the whim of the waves. Brothers in fear.

Quaithe kept to her cabin, laying on the bed while its contents dragged and scraped across the floor. It was pitch – no windows or safe place for a lantern in waters like these. Above she could hear the footsteps of pirates, racing across deck in a fruitless effort to steady the craft. They may as well let it drift. There was only one way to ride these waters. Merchants had been doing it since before time had history.

In the darkness, Quaithe fell in and out of sleep. Sometimes she thought of Wreab, his body falling beneath the waves to be feasted upon by sharks until he settled on the bottom with the swaying weed. His bones became coral. Colourful fish ducked in and out of his ribs. Gone was the fallacy of a place at the god's table and a feast with those that were dead.

Lies from the lips of priests.

She had been granted a glimpse of what lay beyond. Near death herself, she'd felt the approaching ice run through her veins. Her skin shivered. Heart stopped. Then the darkness draped its veil across her shoulders. After that – nothing at all. The Great Silence. A place without gods. That's where men went. Perhaps that's what the Old Ones meant by 'peace'.

The sea claimed magic. Amid the saline vapours, Quaithe found herself slipping between visions. They were darker than before, infested by malevolence.

_She walked along a wall of ice, wind rushing up from the edge, pushing her back as she leaned into the fall. Below an army of corpses razed the Haunted Forest, reducing it to pillars of smoke that sunk heavy with the cold, shifting along the surface of The Wall in a dead tide. Weirwood roots stuck out like bones where the ice had melted in the heat from the fires below. They sprouted, feeling sunlight. Red leaves tumbled into the wind, kicked off onto the Southern side of the wall where they transformed into a bloody rain, turning the snow flats red from Castle Black to Mole's Town. Abandoned swords were thrust into the surface, marking the corpses of their masters. A forest of steel. Wolves padding softly across the leaves._

Quaithe woke, rolling over restlessly in the bed as waves hassled the ship.

_Now a mighty straw effigy, built in the likeness of a lion. The sun rose and with its soft dawn, set the lion ablaze. A living dragon emerged from the ruin, unfurling its wings to the golden light. It basked in the ash, licked death and made a home from the pyre._

Startled, Quaithe roused from sleep. She sat in the darkness, kneels pulled to her chest. The gold mask felt hot against her melted skin as though during the night it had fused to her flesh. She reached up, touching it. The metal was cool. Something in the air was playing tricks with her mind.

The darkness transformed in front of her. Quaithe gasped as a vision took over her waking mind. Not since drinking _Nightshade_ had her reveries been so bold as to infringe upon her conscious hours. The darkness became an ocean. Black at first but then, as she moved through it, a land mass appeared.

Quaithe recognised the mountains behind _Asshai_ and the terrible, liquid shapes of the buildings. The city was alive. Its harbour waters were clear and sweet, filled with ships. Dragons circled the mountains which themselves were forested to the snow line. The fires that burned there now were pressed deep into the earth, sleeping. Other cities dotted the mountain peaks that had since become ash. They were grand and beautiful, as if made of glass. The envy of fallen stars.

This was a place entrenched in the dimmest corner of history. A time recalled in songs and illegible markings carved into stone. The Age of Heroes – when the great empires of the world reigned, leaving the pitiful city sprawls of today in their shadow. _Asshai_ was a marvel of black stone. Newly built, its oily surface glistened, washed with salt. It picked up the light from the rising sun, shifting into gold and pink – sometimes its surface reflected the sky so perfectly that the tangled faces of its buildings vanished entirely, like a desert mirage, neither here nor there.

It was beautiful. More than beautiful. It was _divine._

A million people swelled within its buildings, snuffing candles in the windows – flooding the street with their prayers. A dragon perched on a temple roof, lifting its red wing. It tucked its nose under the fleshly layer, licking at the leather.

Beyond the mountains, these people lay as bones. A sea of souls and a desert of dragon skulls.

Quaithe stared in wonder at the leviathan metropolis and wondered _how can I see this? What force of magic holds sway over me this night? Is it the waves? The Drowned God himself, angered by their passage across his back?_ Or was this something more sinister.

A sharp wave broke the vision. Pitch returned to Quaithe's cabin. She reached out, running her hands through the empty air. Why did the gods taunt her with such things?

Light broke into her room. Daario was at her door, holding a lantern. “Islands,” he announced. “Shrouded in smoke. They've appeared just this hour.”

“Where are we?”

“The cursed waters of Valyria. In a moment, the ships will still. We're at the last of the trade winds. Are you certain this is wise? If we stay this course we'll have no choice.”

Quaithe left her bed and wandered over to the halo of light surrounding Daario. Her golden mask shimmered, dripping sweat from her tormented dreams as though they were tears. “Fear keeps us from those waters. Fear built from stories whispered long ago to keep us out. Why do you think that is?”

“I thought that was obvious. Tyrion and Jorah have been down this way before. The whispers are true. This is no longer a place for men. There is plague in these parts – Dragon Scale.”

“And treasure,” she placed her hand on Daario's chest. “Knowledge, protected by that fear. Tell your pirates to cover their skin. Gloves. Boots. Everything. Use their spears to defend the boats. They will be fine. If a man is touched, send him to a swift death in the waters.”

“Some of the captains are mutinous at the thought. Sea-folk are god fearing.”

“Once they are in the mists they will see. We sail through the ruins.”

Daario returned to the deck. The sun was rising, lifting its fiery body into the sky. Directly in front, the waters were still and a soft cover of grey lay atop the surface. Peeking from the mist were the first shadows of land. Peaks. Thrusts of crumbling rock. Pieces of land thrown from the destroyed mountain ranges that now lay in the shallow water on their sides. Some of them had broken bits of civilisation attached, like flesh on a rotting corpse. Then there was the shoreline – a vast platform of bubbled rock, black and deformed. Fire made solid by the salt. White molluscs clung to the folds like stars. These were the tortured shores of _Valyria._

He looked to the pirates on deck, wrapped from head to toe in rags and leather. They glanced nervously at each other as the mist climbed up the sides of the boats. It smelled of ash and death, of rot and dirt. The men in the crows nest leaned over, pointing the way through the treacherous waters. From that height they could see the water and the wreckage beneath. Their cries steered the fleet safely around. The vessels creaked in the water. Those were the only sounds.

_Viserion_ spread his wings and soared high, vanishing into the chain of smoking islands.

“Don't worry about him,” Quaithe said, joining Daario on deck. “This is his home.”

“I'm not. I'm worried about _us_.” Daario closed his eyes and focused on the breeze against his face. It was warmer in the ruins, tainted by the fires that still burned below the waves. The waters spat, bubbling in places. He'd heard the stories of rivers made from fire – a city suspended over the heat. If anything, _Valyria_ had cooled in the intervening centuries. “What exactly are you looking for? I need to know.”

Quaithe considered her answer. The first breaths of civilisation were beginning to take form as the sea became a river. Part of a stone bridge had collapsed into the water on their left and been consumed by the rich jungle which now covered the entire continent. “Weapons. Armour. Knowledge.”

“We have those already,” Daario insisted. “A fleet this size can take the capital.”

“I know. This is for the battles that come after.”

“What battles...”

“There is a war on the edge of our view, Pirate King, which all men must fight. You may live today but without the relics of Valyria you will perish tomorrow. We're looking for the steel factory that once stood on the banks of this river – when it was aflame. It was one of the largest buildings ever built and with any luck, enough of it will be standing for your men to raid.”

“We're really here for some steel?”

“We're here for Valyrian steel.”

Daario rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. It was forged somewhere in this calamity.

*~*~*

The pirate fleet edged forward, keeping close and away from the banks. All eyes were on the jungle which leered toward them. No birds or creatures dared breathe. The ruins thickened. First it was the odd bridge, crumbling into the water but soon those bridges had buildings, then collections of towns and finally, as they headed toward the city itself, enormous walls of arched stone that had once formed fortifications around  _Valyria_ .

“Seven gods and all the rest...” Daario whispered, leaning over the rail as they passed beneath the shadow of the wall. Where it reached the water, the rock vaulted across the expanse in a series of arches, stacked seven levels high. Even after the ruthless passage of time, Daario could still see the reliefs etched into panels between each one. They contained stories – images of dragons fighting and mountains smoking. “How beautiful this must have been,” he added.

“Oh it was,” Quaithe replied, tears hidden behind her mask. “I see it often in my dreams only the walls were capped with gold to reflect the burning river below. Now the sky is red and the stone a sickening imitation. We will never see the likes of them again.”

“Perhaps that is a good thing,” Daario replied. “By all accounts they were butchers.”

“Maybe but you will thank their violence soon. Are you unwell?”

“It's nothing – sleep...” Daario rubbed his eyes when they started to water again. He worried the small pocket hidden his sash where the tiny gem lay safe. _Yin's Bloodstone_ slumbered against his skin. “This place gives me bad dreams.”

Quaithe nodded and returned her eyes to decay spread ahead.

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS**

###  **THE NORTH**

  
  


Alone, Sansa wandered through the thickening snow. She looked to the sky and found an angry blue forming at the Northern horizon. The ice in the air was palpable, brushing against itself, cracking apart in distant shards of thunder. It was headed their way. Behind, men wrestled horses toward the re-built stables and chopped down pines, piling them into huge pyres which they would light against the cold while the red witch whispered her words.

Rebuilding  _Winterfell_ seemed a hopeless task. For the moment they had secured the buildings left standing and repaired those that were mostly intact. Their tent city was slowly migrating into the confines of the compound where they might find some protection from the weather. The rest they moved into the crypts.

Sansa toyed with the idea of sending a raven to Petyr but feared that he was in the midst of a delicate game. Better to leave him to his own devices – whatever the hell those might be. Fastening her cloak, Sansa turned away from the storm and eyed the fortress of  _Winterfell_ . Her brother kept talking of the wars to come. Tomorrow he would gather their forces and tell everyone the truth, including her.

If wars were coming they could not fight them here. Sentiment did not blind her to the fact that in this state,  _Winterfell_ was a liability unless they hid in the tunnels like rats.

*~*~*

The tiny bear held a candle to the stone. It was formed into the likeness of a Lyanna Stark, sister to the late Eddard Stark and her namesake. It was strange, Lyanna Mormont had asked her mother many times why she had chosen that name and the answer was always, 'when you're older'. Her relatives had been less discrete, taunting her with cruel truths of the young woman's life.

“Your namesake...” Jon Snow appeared beside her in the darkness. They both carried tiny halos of light, candles in the dark with wax dripping into the dirt. “And my aunt.”

She seemed so tiny next to him and yet without her support the wolf would be cold in an ice grave. “I am aware, Jon Snow. All my life I have walked in her shadow.”

“Odd, isn't it?” Jon started, reaching forward to lay a small, half-frozen rose in the statue's outstretched hand as his father used to do. “We're all trapped by things we never did and people who passed before we were born.”

“Not you, Snow.” Lyanna replied. “You're named for the white drifts. For the storms. The songs that were never told. Whereas me? I'm named after a woman that threw the realm into chaos. Now I am mistress of war. It is a cursed name.” She could feel his eyes on her, confused. Jon was a simple man like all the Starks before him. “I paid for your sword and goaded the other Northern houses to your side in conflict, preying on their wounded pride. We are at war with the South now whether you wish it or not.”

“That is not the war that matters.”

“I understand that is how you feel but the Southerns do not see things as we do. They'll view our rebellion as a threat to their sovereignty. Without a thought they'll march to thin our numbers. We cannot afford that.”

“I've sent ravens to King's Landing.”

“I've sent ravens to Varys.” Lyanna countered, her candlelight on his face. Jon's eyes were so dark that they stole the light right from the flame. “King's Landing will have new crowns shortly.”

“What are you doing, Lyanna?”

“Making sure that you survive.” Lyanna knew that she wasn't old enough to fight his battles with a sword yet but she could certainly manipulate them from a raven's wing. “There's one more thing – your sister.”

Jon did not understand. “Sansa?”

“She's Queen of the North. When you ride for The Wall, as King, you need to leave her here. There must _always_ be a Stark in Winterfell. That is our way.”

Jon was shaking his head. “I doubt she'd agree to that and I cannot leave her undefended.”

“We do not know why those words are uttered but they are old words. My maester, a wise man, is of the belief that they are a form of magic. Oh dear, have you forgotten such things?”

“I have lived death,” Jon stepped closer to the tiny bear. “Then I was ripped from it as babes are torn from the womb.”

“But what did you see, in the world of the dead? I think not feasting tables with the gods on one side and our fathers the other. Mmm... As I thought. The very young know what the old forget – that death is a pit, not a gilded crib.”

“It was...” Hot wax dribbled over Jon's hand. He barely felt it burn. “Nothing at all.”

Lyanna reached forward, placing her gloved hand on his arm. She was so small against him and yet all the strength came from her. Perhaps that's why they called them 'bears'. “Then we have  _nothing_ to fear.”

Jon was left alone with the statue of his aunt. Dried flowers lay in pieces on the floor, all brought by his father in the years past. It was odd – when he was a boy, no more than six, his father had taken him down into the crypts and stood before this statue, crying with him in his arms.

_'I can't. I can't...'_ Ned had whispered through his tears, holding Jon closer until the little boy thought he might be snapped in half. Ned Stark died with many secrets, none so precious to Jon than the story of his mother. He wondered if he would ever know her name, probably not. It was entirely possible that there was simply nobody left alive who knew the truth.

“Sansa?” Jon noticed the light approach.

A few moments later, Sansa appeared, shedding fresh snow on the tunnel floor. She nudged her fur hood back and released her red hair which had grown longer and thicker with the cold making her look more like her mother every day. “We were looking for you. Lyanna said that I could find you down here.” Sansa stopped in front of the statue. “What are you doing?”

“Thinking about my mother,” Jon replied honestly, stepping back until he was laying against a nearby wall. Sansa remained beside Lyanna's statue.

“In the crypts?” Sansa replied. “You won't find your mother here.”

“I won't find my mother anywhere,” Jon replied. “That secret died with father. He promised to tell me when he returned from King's Landing.”

Sansa knew how that story ended.

“Did he tell you anything?”

Sansa shook her head. “I think you forget how young I was when he died.”

“Then no one knows. Sansa? What is it?”

“I doubt that. There are two people who I can think of that might know who your mother is. Varys, who knows everybody's secrets, from the fish monger to the king and -”

“And?”

“Lord Baelish. He seems privy to more than he lets on and,” Jon pealed himself from the wall and was now inching toward her, candle held aloft so that the light hit her face. “He's kept company with Varys long enough to know many of those secrets. He hinted to me, in this very place, that there is more to be told of our Aunt and if he knows that intimate detail about our family, why not the story of your mother?”

“Did he say something?”

“No.” She replied quickly. “It's only – I know him. Better than you would like.”

“Be careful, Sansa. Our father didn't trust him. Baelish is _dangerous_.”

She wanted to say,  _my mother loved him_ but held her tongue. “Of course he's dangerous,” Sansa agreed. “Dangerous men are what we need in the North if we hope to keep it. Besides, I know what he wants. That's the key to owning any man.”

“I forget,” Jon whispered, reaching forward to gently brush his hand against her cheek. “That you are fierce like our mother. Your mother.” He corrected.

“She was your mother too, in every way that counts. You might not think it or have ever felt it but she loved you. She should be – here...” Tears caught Sansa by surprise, welling up in her eyes as a sob caught her throat. The candle fell. Wax spilled into a pool, revealing the wick which burned all the fiercer, illuminating the statue.

Jon set his candle on the floor and took Sansa in his arms, holding her. They had never been very affectionate as siblings but now they found themselves alone in the world. The last Starks of  _Winterfell_ .

*~*~*

Davos Seaworth near fell flat on his face. He pushed himself off the wall, turned and carefully traversed the ice around the stables. Horses shuffled, nudging their noses as bags of hay. It was all shit, smoke and straw but in the centre someone had built a rudimentary furnace. A blacksmith was set up in the middle of  _Winterfell_ , casually guarded by some of  _The Vale_ soldiers who'd been left behind. Dammit it all to hell though, he knew that man covered in soot. Small, bloody world that it was.

“Fuck all the gods,” Davos said, wandering up to the man beating the life out of a sword. There was mud beneath him instead of ice, melted away. The man looked up, dripping sweat and filth into the flames which hissed angrily. “Never thought I'd see your like again.”

Gendry's first priority was the weapon he was crafting. He hit the steel over and over, sparks flying into the dirt before he thrust it into the water to cool for a while.

“Careful what you say to the gods, old man, they might be listening.”

Davos laughed heartily, honestly pleased for the first time in months. “I thought you were for the waves, lad.”

“So did I,” Gendry admitted. “Couldn't row to save my own arse – as was proved when the weather turned and I went where the wind and waves wished.”

“Which was?”

“Tarth.”

“Tarth!”

“Aye. I was near dead when I washed up on a beach, surrounded by quite honestly the most beautiful waters I have ever seen. Thought I was dead and was happy for it. Shame, after all the trouble you went to regarding me.”

“Yeah – trouble is what I'd call it. Stannis set me in the dungeons over you. Oh I didn't mind so much. It was that red witch that did it.” Davos stopped – realising. “She's 'ere you know. The woman. You can' stay if she's about.”

“Can't go either. Witch or no witch. Is Stannis 'ere then?”

Davos shook his head. “Stannis is dead. I'm sorry. Your uncle, niece...”

All Gendry could do was nod curtly, gripping his hammer. “Thought as much. You don't hear a name for a while and – well I know what sort of a world it is. You with the Starks then?”

“Aye. With the North an' all. I've nowhere left to go.”

*~*~*

With each day that passed, Winter grew stronger. Sansa took to the godwood, sitting under the  _Weirwood._ She had nothing to say to the gods but she felt closer to the ghosts of her family beneath the shedding bower. Red leaves dropped onto her like tears. Sansa held one of them between her fingers.

Something moved. Branches bending with snow. Then the sweep of a man's cloak. Sansa stood to face the disturbance. Instead of steel a pair of kind eyes emerged. Petyr lifted his hands.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.”

“You did not,” Sansa replied. They were alone. She preferred it this way. “Is the Dreadfort secure?”

He nodded. “The Vale banners fly beside Stark from her towers. We cleared the dungeons of the dead and buried them, as you wished. The gold is intact, Your Grace. You have money enough to rebuild Winterfell, should you choose.”

“Should I choose that course?” she asked, quite seriously. “Winterfell is a ruin and the weather has turned. Who is left to build at times like these?” Sansa turned away from him and faced the pale tree. The screaming face in its bark changed every time she laid eyes on it. Today it was young, twisted and crying streams of sap from the corners of both eyes. “Do you ever think that this is hopeless?” Sansa listened to the crunch of snow behind her. The scrape of Littlefinger's cloak across the ground.

“Nothing is hopeless while we live,” he whispered, lingering behind her. He dared not touch her, frightened she might transform into mist and blow away with the snows. “We both understand what it is to have nothing. Imagine, if we had felt then what you do now. I'd be a corpse beneath your father's sword and you a pet of a mad king.”

Sansa removed her glove and reached forward, touching the sap. It was sticky and cold yet somehow its touch burned her skin. She turned, startling Lord Baelish. His eyes were unguarded, clear like the ice hanging from the tree's branches. “I cannot decide if your will is that of a fool or -”

“Or?” Petyr asked, looking down.

“Or if you are as wise as I've been warned.”

Those eyes lifted. He thought of kissing her again. Of offering once again to gift her all that was his. Instead, Lord Baelish sank to his knee in the snow and said, “Your Grace, the money is yours. If you wish to build Winterfell, then it will be done. If you intend to bribe the Southern houses then that will be done. You've only to tell me what your particular wish is.”

Part of her knew that Lord Baelish was acting on his own ambition rather than her whim but she suspected it aligned with her purpose. They'd always been of one mind about these things. All Baelish lacked was the proper information. As did she. “My brother is holding a meeting today which I wish you to attend and say  _nothing_ . After, you and I will decide where we go from here.” She offered him her hand.

Petyr took it gently in his and lowered his lips to kiss her warm skin. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.” She confirmed. Lord Baelish nodded.

###  **RUINS OF VALYRIA**

###  **THE SMOKING SEA**

  
  


The _Valyrian Steel Works_ lay on an angle, partially submerged in the river with its backside covered in dense jungle. That didn't matter. It was immense. The largest construction that any of them had set eyes on. It was longer than the great _Pyramid of Ghis_ had been tall, nearly as wide and too large for the cataclysm to destroy.

“Gods...” Daario climbed up a small section of rigging as they slowed in the water. “How can men build such things?”

“We've forgotten,” Quaithe replied. Her visions were bleeding into her waking hours. Even now, she saw the silhouettes of dragons grace the sky and the constant glisten of gold that had long ago melted into the fires.

Daario was the first to brave the plank bridging their ship to the building. It laid at an angle and shifted beneath his feet as he crawled along. The waters below him were grey, stinking with putrid gases. It was enough to burn his eyes, forcing tears from them.

“Right?”

“Right...” Daario called back to the anxious pirates. They leaned over the edge of the boat, clinging to ropes and watching the jungle for movement. Nearing the other side he stood up and walked the last few feet, stepping onto the granite building. He was probably two floors up with the building tilted just enough laterally for him to scamper along the walls toward the nearest window.

Inside it was dark but with huge streams of light coming in from each gaping archway. Vines tangled down from the ceiling. Cobwebs clustered around the windows and he could hear the shuffle of bats somewhere in the depths. This was a cave made by man.

A cave full of treasure.

“What do you see, captain?”

Daario extracted himself from the window and perched on the stone. His caution gave way to a grin. “Come on over and have a look for yourselves.”

 


	54. The Drowned God

 

###  **STEPSTONES – BETWEEN THE NARROW AND SUMMER SEAS**

Lining the highest ridge on the rocky outpost, the _Dothraki_ began their war-whoops, screeching and wailing at the sea-mists. The horses kicked and reared up against the boats. Seagulls startled, taking to the air in a veil of white noise. Crashing waves tore pieces from _The Stepstones_. Ropes creaked with the strain of restless hulls, lashed together.

Fisherman paddled canoes in the shallow water. Grey Worm leaped from one of them, swimming ashore where her clambered up the rocks, ignoring the graze of shells and bone. Salt ran off his back leaving sticky trails down his skin until he reach the summit of ravenous peaks. From the other side, an ocean wind hit his face. He gripped the black rock, bracing himself against the fierceness. _There._ Edging out of the mist. The tips of sailing masts and a pair of dragons casting shadows over the water.

_'Kahleesi! Khaleesi! Khaleesi!'_

The voices chanted in the wind, rising like the daily tides. Weeks of starvation had left  _Dothraki_ and  _Unsullied_ bones stark to the skin. Their hides were tanned making each jaw of teeth all the whiter as they lifted their arms with prayers to  _Vezhof_ and the forgotten gods of  _Lhazar._ Those that perished lay withered amid the shattered rock along the shore. Gifts for the sea.

*~*~*

Varys' amusement at the childish hand was short lived. Lyanna Mormont wrote with such determined frankness that he could not tell if she was poor at hiding her ambition or frighteningly brilliant – a wicked mix of her parents whose weaknesses she lacked. It was safer to assume the latter.

Mormonts were not known for their political intrigue and yet for an otherwise insignificant outpost clasping at the world's nethers they routinely played the rest of the realm with a heavy hand. Skirting around the edges... Present if not complicit. Here they were again. A new king had risen in the North and a bear by his side. A queen in the South – a bear by her side.

_'Spider,_

_We have ourselves a problem. Today, with Bolton bones under our horses, we look further North. The Wall is quiet and vastly under patrolled. The Bastard Snow, who goes by Stark – now King, intends to fight an army of dead who will breach the realm if we do nothing._

_Look after the Southerners for us. We have no ambition beyond the protection of the Seven Kingdoms. It is as it was for a thousand years._

_Lyanna Mormont.'_

Lady Lyanna neither cared for pleasantries nor did she ask for his help. She _told_ him what needed to be done. Varys respected the honesty, mostly because she was right. Although a war with the North might weaken _King's Landing_ for Daenerys' conquest, the effect on the realm would be disastrous. A blind man could see that if everyone died for a banner there'd be no one left to rule. An empty throne room was of no use. Whatever Varys wanted – he didn't want _that._ Excessive violence had been the ruination of more than one monarch.

_'Little Bear,_

_You be keeper of the North. We'll join you when we can. So it was for a thousand years._

_Varys.'_

He wrestled the reply onto one of his birds and tucked the creature under his arm. Calmly, Varys left his cabin and climbed onto the deck which was concealed by a fresh layer of salty mist rolling over the rails. With a final whisper, he threw his crow into the air where the creature spread its wings and climbed, avoiding the pair of dragons sailing above. Beyond, a perfect sky. A glimmer of hope, perhaps – or the last breath before the fall.

“Is that it?” Varys asked, as Tyrion approached. His footing was firm upon the deck and the usual vapours of fermentation were gone.

A bulbous dagger of rock, freshly collapsed into the shallow sea masked a larger, docile shore behind. A rise of basalt capped with a thousand feathered individuals squawked at their approach. Soon those cries gave way to chants. They could hear the Queen's name in the air, as though the wind itself were whispering.

“We're about to tack around and enter the harbour,” Tyrion confirmed. “The queen is below getting ready. Mormont is finalising invasion plans with the Dornish prince.”

If Varys had a brow it would have curved. “And how is _that_ going?”

“Well their disagreements have not yet escalated to violence so – well, I think.”

“The Queen has to marry eventually.”

“Of that, our miserable knight is quite aware. This one is not so bad. A bit – insipid perhaps but there doesn't seem to be any malice to him.” Shattered outcrops of rock passed by their ship. They could hear the rough waters breaking against their charred remains. It was all very beautiful in its destruction. Tyrion seemed distracted by it. “Do you ever imagine our ancestors walking across this part of the world, all those years ago? Before it was torn asunder by Children and their songs.”

“Your ancestors,” Varys corrected. “Mine were sensible enough to remain in the East. We always thought Westeros was more trouble than it was worth. Sad old piece of frozen rock, crawling with all manner of beast. Why bother?”

“The same might be said of the throne.” Tyrion smirked, fixing the clasps on his cape. Varys spoke with such disdain he could almost picture him as a high born lord. Who knows. Maybe that's exactly what he was before someone got to his cock. “Probably not far off with that. Here we go. You might want to hold on to something.”

Both men reached for the rail as the ship listed. Its sails fell flat, swung against their heavy logs then bloomed in the opposite direction. The vessel cut against the water, curving astride the tide as it made the narrow pass into the harbour.

The Queen's fleet was within, nestled safely in the arms of rock.

“How far to Dorne?”

“A day thereabouts,” Varys replied. “The Prince says that we can make port at the tip of the continent and rest the horses. We risk losing them if we sail straight onto the _Sunspear_. The _Dothraki_ will want to ride and rid themselves of the sea.”

“I'll fetch the Queen.” Tyrion bowed lightly at Varys before ducking below deck. The Queen's quarters were open and he found her in the final stages of dressing, adding a silver clasp to her hair which had grown longer over her travels. “Your Grace, your fleet is intact and happy to see you. Grey Worm is signalling. We'll moor beside them shortly.”

“No one is to leave my boat – do you understand?” The Queen turned around and tussled her hair. Her tone was sharp.

For the first time Tyrion saw Daenerys as a Targaryen. Here, with the scent of conquest heavy in the air, she was the image of Aegon but instead of steel she fastened jewels about her pale figure. She had no need of fancy swords when her weapons had wings. He wondered how much blood she'd shed to seat herself on the Iron Throne. _All of it._ Fire was rising in her blood. The coin – tipping toward the other side. “Yes but why?”

“The Faceless Assassins come from Braavos where our ship was causally moored for several days. How do I know that there are not more on board, hiding in plain sight? There aren't any in this bay, of that I am certain.” She was quiet for a moment, taking a red shawl which she wrapped around her shoulders. “Tell me, _advise me_ , would it be wise to risk importing a murderer then dragging them across the seas in close confines at this delicate moment?”

Tyrion – closed the door. He leaned against it, eyeing the queen. “I'm not sure I understand you.”

“You understand me.” And now Daenerys' eyes were cold like her father's, piercing through Tyrion as eagerly as a dagger.

He honestly wasn't sure that he did. “You – wish to _kill_ the crew of this ship?”

“Sink the ship...” Daenerys countered. “These are dangerous waters. Accidents happen. They can be arranged.”

“Drown them? A whole ship just to be sure? In all probability, Your Grace, _none_ of them are what you fear.”

That might be true but Daenerys gambled with more than her own life. Her fate was locked to the future of the realm. What was a handful of men to the survival of the world? Philosophers could argue for years about the value of life but at the end of it all, survival was a game of numbers. She had to play as though spending coin rather than men's souls.

“And I'm splitting our party.” She continued, ignoring the sullen countenance of her advisor. “I won't have all my council aboard one ship in the final leg where the seas are rough and thick with pirates. The Dornish Prince and Grey Worm will sail together as they have much to discuss. You'll have a ship to yourself, as will Varys. Take the ones with the lower _Unsullied_ generals and make sure you have a clear line of succession should anything happen to Grey Worm. I'm sending Missandei and the Northern girl to our _Dothraki_ commander. He's an honest brute and a bit of a shit but Missandei can communicate the invasion schedule to him while we're enroute. His _Common Tongue_ is so-so. Mormont will stay with me. It's only as far as Dorne, Tyrion. You need not look so alarmed.”

Tyrion was giving her that resigned look of worry he'd come to know well through their travels. It wasn't so much her decisions that troubled him, it was that she kept their reason close to her chest. Even now she lied.

“Then, when we are in Dorne,” Tyrion added, lingering with his hand upon the door, “will you tell me what your plans are?”

“You know what-”

“No, your true plans. A fool could see that you are on a path and it isn't leading to the Iron Throne. If you want people to come with you, I'm afraid you _must_ share the destination.”

The Queen was silent. He was right. She understood that but to tell the men what she knew before the first war would be a mistake. They had to keep their focus. “Do as I have asked and in Dorne, we'll talk again.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Tyrion left, closing the door behind him. When he was gone, Jorah emerged from the alcove behind Daenerys' wardrobe. In warmer waters, he'd left his long jackets aside and stood in a fresh, pale yellow shirt with thick straps holding up his swords. One of ice and one of steel. He left nothing to chance with the possibility of another assassin.

“Will he do it?” Jorah asked.

“Of course he will,” Daenerys replied, turning to her knight. “He's perfectly capable of murder when required, as is Varys. Besides, I'm not wrong. You are sure that there is one more assassin in our crew?”

Jorah nodded. “I am. I've searched but – who could know when they change their faces? That kind of magic is forbidden for a reason. They worship dark gods.”

“They can worship the sun itself for all the good it will do them when the tide comes in.”

“Careful, Your Grace,” Jorah handed Daenerys her final bracelet. Instead of accepting it she held out her arm for him to slide it over her delicate hand. “Killing is necessary, no one will disagree but never let them see you enjoy it. There is no need to give your enemies reason to...”

The bracelet slipped over her wrist and Jorah found himself holding the Queen's hand gently. Daenerys looked up at him with quiet amusement. For all they'd been through – the things they'd seen and said... Yet he hesitated at such a simple thing. It was only a brush of skin.

“I am _not_ my father,” she assured him.

“I understand,” Jorah whispered, slipping away from her. Though he often believed that it took a certain kind of madness to claim a throne. The boat was rocking beneath them, riding the rougher waters at the gates of the natural harbour. “But you are a dragon, _Khaleesi._ The Westerosi fear bloodshed. Kill who you need to. Pay the rest. Mourn all who shed blood beneath your banner. After you win – and you _will win_ ,” he assured her, “they will _all_ be your people.”

“Is that the Northern way, Ser?”

“Depends which North. Some folk eat their enemies alive and lay their skins outside the castle walls. Not us...” he added, with a patient smile. “We mostly chop wood, fish and sit on the banks of the frozen shore weaving nets.”

“Had I my time again, I might choose that life,” Daenerys held his gaze a moment before turning away. “Go. You're supposed to be with the Dornish Prince.”

*~*~*

As the boats were switched over, Grey Worm waited on deck. His eyes searched and found Missandei as she traversed one of the planks running between the fleet. There was a strange girl in front of her, grasping at ropes with a slender sword silhouetted against the glare.

He waited for Missandei to lift her head and cast her gaze in his direction. She did not.

Grey Worm sank away into the ship.

*~*~*

It was a terrible thing. As the fleet pulled out, one of the ships caught its anchor upon the rock. Fuelled by strong winds, the force of the drag ripped a hole in the side. Water poured through, knocking over the sailors nearest the fatal tear.

Frantic calls started. Men screamed at each other. Chaos reigned as the prow twisted sharply and smashed into the rocks. Then the waves started, scrunching the wooden hull into the savage shore until it dusted the shoreline.

The other ships were already in the throws of leaving. Caught in the rough winds they could not stop to help. One by one they tacked into the wind and slipped out of view until finally the last ship sidled by the stricken vessel. Daenerys stood on deck, watching as men fell helplessly into the water where they were washed against the shore or were savaged by the waves. A few climbed onto the island, bloodied and dazed. They laid over the rock like seals, bleeding out as the sun finally cut through the mist and warmed their faces.

The dragons, who had spent the last few hours perching at the harbour's gates, launched into the wind knocking a hail of rubble free with their talons.

Tears slipped down her cheeks which she neglected to wipe away. When she turned to her own crew they saw her enormous, sorrow-filled eyes. They grieved with her, their queen. Knelt as she lifted her arms and whispered prayers to the fallen.

Jorah watched love swell in the hearts of those that followed her. _Good._ They must never see the other side of her.

###  ** THE IRON ISLANDS – THE NORTH **

  
  


Theon Greyjoy stood upon the splinters of rock with the freezing tide dragging against his boots. In the distance, the five castles of  _Pyke_ leaned awkwardly atop their broken sea stacks heading, inevitably, toward the waves. That is how the Iron Born lived, between land and sea, precarious in life with watery graves.

The boat which brought him fled, vanishing behind him amid the odd hue of purple left by the failing sun. Their was uproar on the air – war or celebration, it was impossible to tell from this distance.

His question was answered as he rounded on a sea cave, picking his way across the treacherous fall of rocks at its mouth where the waters had pulled back to reveal all manner of wriggling sea thing gasping for salt. Over the next rise came a scramble of Iron Born, tossing their bags of weapons first. At their head was his sister with a wild look written into the lines around her eyes.

They met. Asha on her knees in the sand and him, destitute above. Theon offered his hand. She took it, as though he were a ghost of the sea, washed up with the storm. A trail of blood was left over the rock, running out of her leg. Some of the men with her bled in kind and together, they picked up their things and hastened back the way Theon had come, rounding the bay toward the quiet harbour where the better ships were kept.

Others joined them, unfurling sails and clambering over the groaning decks. He tried to call to her – ask what had happened but there was no time for talk. As the boats pulled out a shadow appeared on the weathered rocks. Victarion, their brother stormed in front of the others, the salt crown knotted in his hair. His clothes dripped and half were stained red.

###  **SANTAGAR – THE BROKEN ARM**

  
  


“Do you see it?”

Daenerys leaned over the rail, pressing her stomach against the firm barrier. She narrowed her eyes at horizon until the line of water gave way to an unnatural rise. Soon after, sand dunes the size of mountains separated themselves from the sea and she nodded.

_Westeros._

Their ship sailed at the front of the fleet. Behind them, Dornish sails joined the Targarayen ones already full with a fresh Northern wind. “We've been travelling so long, the thought of a few nights on solid ground are welcome.” Said Jorah, beside her.

“I agree.” The Queen absently rested her hand on his arm. She did not recognise it for the cruelty it was. Even her lightest, passing affection hurt. The closer they drew to the sun-kissed shore, the further she slipped away. “You despair, my Lord.”

Sometimes she called him thus in jest, having found amusement in it since their time in the furthest reaches of the North. There he was a king. The thought of it made her smile and so, when they were alone, she fell into the habit.

“That's not the word for it,” he replied, pausing briefly to glance at her pale hand against his sleeve. “Westeros is a tangle of blood and wounded pride. We're stepping onto a board half covered in shadow. Varys and Tyrion are our eyes. Pray they see clearly.”

“I've given up on prayers, as have you.”

Now her head, tilted against his shoulder. Her hair rippled across his back. “I am not sure that it could be called prayer but sometimes I think of the Old Gods. I don't imagine they understand what we say when we kneel under bowing  _Weirwoods_ and rave on but perhaps, very occasionally, they notice our presence and lift their eyes to let us pass.”

“Don't you ever worry that maybe the gods wish us to die? They could be selfish and want the world for themselves. When we pray we wake them, cause them to stir. Then the waves, wind – fire and ice strike us down until we fall quiet again.”

Jorah watched Dany as she spoke. Her eyes were on the water but a layer of ice lay over them. He knew that she dreamed terrible things and that there was truth in those visions. Somehow, in their passage from one world to the next, she had aged. “Have you seen our end? You would not tell me if you had,” he realised.

“I've seen enough to understand what needs to be done.”

“Your Grace, I will follow you wherever you wish. Under the waves. Through the fires.” Jorah would follow her through death if that is what it took to see her sit that throne. “I – I don't need you to tell me.”

“Then do not ask me again.” The ship caught the crest of a wave and threw Daenerys off balance. She hissed at a sudden flare of pain where the rail grazed the sliced skin beneath her bandages. “No need to fuss,” she turned away when Jorah reached for her.

*~*~*

Dorne was a harsh mistress. Her rising dunes were a mirror of the restless ocean and where they met, crystal channels of water had been cut into the sand. Flat-bottomed boats paddled into their mouths, laden with fruit and spice. Palm trees dotted the passages, sticking up with halos of green. Crocodiles lazed on the banks while flamingos stepped cautiously nearby. A little further on, square buildings built of mud rose in an odd conglomeration.  _Santagar_ boasted a regular burst of civilisation wherever water gathered. There as no city as such. Their inhabitants were wanderers and bound to the Martells only loosely.  _Tread carefully,_ Varys had warned them.

The fleet pulled into a calm stretch of water where there was a bit of a gravel warn into the sand. The  _Dorthraki_ unloaded the horses first, letting them gorge on a line of grain. Tyrion wandered off his boat and squinted at the burning orb that had taken residence in the sky. The heat was shocking, worse than  _Slaver's Bay_ . Somehow the dunes mirrored the relentless burning back onto them and without a breeze to hurry it away, the land baked. Varys was next, sweating straight through his silks.

It was the Queen who emerged as a mirage. Wearing nothing but a slip of orange silk and sandals, she strode over the ground with every eye on her. Her people kneeled as she passed. Even the horses stilled.

Her eyes swelled with unshed tears which caught in the sun.  _Westeros_ was beneath feet. She stopped, dragging the precession to halt as she knelt in the dust and placed her hands on the burning surface. Tears hissed where they fell. Daenerys closed her fists and rose, letting the sand slip into the wind in two great veils.

Jorah remained behind. Emotion welled up in his throat as he watched the Queen slowly turn to the rise of dunes. Yesterday she was a child, bartered to a  _Kharl._ As the only figure still standing, Jorah stepped toward her. When finally she looked to him, he whispered. “Welcome home, Your Grace.” Then, as her breath caught, he too knelt.

Varys and Tyrion, side by side in the dirt, never dreamed of such a thing.

“Dorne bends the knee to Westeros – next the stars will fall,” Varys whispered.

Tyrion nodded to a red tear across the Northern sky where a comet pushed in chase of the sun. “They don't fall,” he whispered. “The stars bleed for her.”

The dragons were off hunting in the sea but soon they would return and strike fear into the caravans lingering at the outskirts. Prince Quentyn Martell joined Daenerys and together they met the litter sent ahead to escort them to the village.

“Is it as you imagined?” Quentyn asked, when he and Daenerys were sat together in the lush interior of the litter. The rest of their party walked behind, including Jorah whose outline was visible through the curtains of silk.

“Dorne is – stark,” she settled on. “Harsher than I thought. It goes a long way to explaining the iron will of its people, which is famed even as far as Valyria.”

“We are not so poor as you might think. Inland, over those dunes, there are rich river flats and red soil. Sand is replaced by lemon orchards, terraced down rocky slopes as far as you can see. I was born further South where the deserts themselves are tamed.” In another world, if their wills were not already settled, they might have made a good match.

Varys and Tyrion were in another, trailing behind.

“Is it the heat or are you nervous?”

Varys patted his scalp again, wiping lines of sweat off it. “You need not be quite so indelicate,” he assured Tyrion. “And you'd be wise to cast a nervous eye over things once in a while.”

“Dorne is a friend.”

“Dorne is as complex as King's Landing. This stop is essential for the survival of the army but if our hosts are opportunistic and daring enough the reigning prince might take advantage of our ships. The sooner the Queen's dragons arrive, the better. I never thought I'd say it but I feel safer with those marauding savages in the air.”

“So long as they behave.” Tyrion thought back to the ruin that now lay at the heart of _Braavos._

*~*~*

The road was long but the last part of the journey was spent alongside the canal where it was cooler and the palms swayed with heavy loads of dates. Daenerys slipped into a sleep, propped against the cushions. Quentyn glanced over to her. Moonlight cut her face. Her eyelids twitched as did her hands. He frowned, hesitantly lifting his hand to feel her brow. It was unnaturally warm and she was murmuring things he could not catch.

Quentyn reached over the Queen and opened the curtain, whispering to catch the knight's attention. The imposing Northern man loomed closer.

“The Queen...”

Jorah leaned in and saw her deep in a dream. “Let her be...” Jorah whispered. “Targaryens dream differently to us.” Then he tugged the curtain back and left Quentyn with her.

For all his life he'd heard and quickly dismissed the mystical qualities of the world. When you lived in a harsh lattice of sand and salt, swirling fantasies served no use. He was a man of war and beauty but sitting beside the young queen he witnessed a glimmer of those songs the elder witches sang and thought _what if they were true?_

When they arrived at the low-lying palace he helped Daenerys out and they walked in together to greet the other prince. A first cousin, Quentyn was wary of his blood. There were skeletons in the dunes that could tell a history of violence if they hadn't died with their lips sewn shut.

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

  
  


Lyanna stroked the feathers on the crow, letting it pick seed from her open palm. The invasion of  _King's Landing_ must be imminent for the Spider to be so cocky in reply. Quite an achievement for a man that lacked the equipment. She tucked the message into her sleeve and shooed the bird off to sit with its kin on the bare branches of a dead Willow. Like Stark's Tully bride, it did not belong this far North.

“Again, My Lady?” Her swordsman asked, waiting in a cleared patch of dirt for her. Lyanna nodded and picked up her sword, spinning it to gauge the weight. “You've been practising.”

“One must, in times such as these,” Lyanna replied, taking her position opposite. She could not rely on men to save her if they were all dead in snow drifts. “How are our wounded?”

Their swords met – slowly at first. Up. Left. Parry. Up. She matched each movement. “Healing well. A couple of weeks and they'll have a swords in their hands again.”

“So we lost eight in all.”

“What troubles you? Eight is far less than I expected. Your council thought that we would lose them all.”

“Logistically speaking,” she ducked, avoiding his blade, “how long would it take to move everyone off the island?”

Her man hesitated, which was to his detriment. Lyanna hit him with the side of her blade to punish his hesitation. He stumbled back, regaining his balance. “It has never been done.”

“That is not what I asked you. Besides, it has,” she assured him. “All I want to know is _how long_?”

“Into the long boats?” The man rubbed his side and lifted his sword back to the she-bear. “A week, at the outside.”

Her reports indicated that the  _Bay of Ice_ was on its way to freezing solid. If that happened, a bridge to the  _Lands of Always Winter_ would leave them helpless to roving parties of savages and anything else that called those wiles their home.

Before they could speak again, the bells of _Winterfell_ rang. The remaining Northern lords and all their commanders descended into the heart of the ruins where Jon Stark waited. The White Wolf paced in front of the gathering crowd while Sansa Stark remained as a statue, pale and fierce with snow gathering at her feet. The days were getting colder. Fresh flurries swirled about. Lyanna felt them settle on her cheek as she dug her sword into the snow and waited.

Petyr was the last to arrive. He slipped into the back of the crowd, climbing onto a small fragment of castle wall left in the courtyard. He perched, like a bird, his eyes on Sansa. She nodded in his direction then turned purposefully to introduce her brother.

Before he had the chance to speak, a fresh nightmare of wind howled through  _Winterfell_ . It was as though the ghosts of all the dead that lay as smoke and ash around them had come back to scream at the living. Jon stared past the crowd toward the mountains. North. He could feel the bones shift and rattle ever closer.

“You are all here because you want to know what comes next.” The wind again, driving ice into his face. “It is tempting to crawl back to our homes, lick our wounds and settle in for the Winter as we might of done a hundred years past. We _cannot_.

“Winter _is_ coming.” Jon Stark lurched forwards, imploring the crowd with his words. The fierceness of the cold helped his cause. “I come from The Wall – as do some of you.” Though most of the _Wildlings_ had left to claim their castles and recover their strength. “I won't pretend that you haven't heard the stories. Let me assure you now that they are _true._ ”

The crowd of Northerners shifted, gripping their weapons in natural fear.

“The Night's Watch stood with the Wildlings on the shores of Hardhome and watched the cliffs fill with an army of the dead. Pale corpses rode horses into the fray. Their ice-made weapons shattered our steel and tens of thousands of Wildling bodies lined the snow. As we escaped into ships their dead commander lifted his hands -” Jon mimicked the Night's King, stretching out his arms. “- and the bodies of our friends rose. Dead. Alive. Their eyes blue as the sky. That is what waits us in the winter winds.

“They do not stop. They do not sleep. Every day they grow as our loved ones are picked from their graves and added to the ranks. A wall of ice won't stop them. There's a reason our ancestors built castles against the ice. If we run now and seek shelter the night will come and with it all the terrors the priests whisper in our dreams.”

Melisandre listened. Bringing back Jon had left a stain on her. Now, when she dared to stare at the heart of flames she saw blue eyes and rotten flesh. Sometimes, if she looked for too long, the flames extinguished and left her in the cold.

“I ask the Lords to ride home. Gather every soul who can raise a sword and head North with provisions. We meet at Castle Black to fulfil our ancient vow. The rest, send South. Ride as far as the Riverlands or The Vale.”

As Jon vanished into a crack in the castle wall while the Lords murmured amongst themselves. Sansa felt her skin chill. Disbanding, even temporarily, presented a great moment of weakness. If ever there was a moment to steal the North away it was now. Even a lowly house could manage it if the armies split. Littlefinger certainly sensed it. Why else did he stare at her with such intensity?

*~*~*

“They think you have gone mad,” Davos opened, the only one who would speak. “It's happened to kings before after a bloody battle.”

Jon stood by the fire, held alight partly by Melisandre's spells. “Far from the first time I have been accused of it.”

“Those men fought to rid themselves of Bolton butchery, not to be led blindly into the freezing North. They fought for peace and you are asking them to march onto war. Worse than war. Forgive me but for most their numbers are so low, they risk annihilation of their linage. You are a compelling figure...” Davos tried to assure him. The resemblance to Stannis' position was eerie. A man with a doomed cause. “And the gods must want you alive but-”

The Northern King was brooding. He wished others could see what he had, then they might understand that there was no room for discussion or politics at the end of the world. “They'll all die if they don't.” He muttered in frustration.

“I agree but we have to make them believe that.”

Sansa, Petyr, Tormund and Lyanna sat along a block of fallen wall. There was a knock at the door. Glover joined them with Manderly and Umber on his heels. The new Karstark commander nodded as well. When they were settled, Jon gestured at Tormund who stood and took his place at the centre of the room. It was difficult, appearing before a council of people who'd spent their whole lives wishing him dead but he weathered it because  _his_ people depended on their decision.

“Bein' this far South of The Wall with you lot...” Tormund began, his eyes meeting each and every soul in the room. He'd never felt more alone than now, in a den of wolves that wished his bones shattered and sinew split. “It's no secret we spilled blood for centuries.” Tormund even caught a glimmer of pain in their eyes. He wondered if _Free Folk_ had killed any of their family. The young bear, almost certainly, yet she was steady as _The Wall_ itself. “Before tha', in our oldest stories, we were the same. The first men had no kings an' neither did we. Our homes were in the forests and river plains. We still share somethin' – aside from all tha' makes us different. We're _alive._

“What there Snow says is the truth. I was there when them bones came over the cliff. You can' imagine the sound it makes when they hit the ice. First came the mist – like that of a storm only there were no wind t' drive it. Then it was -” The powerful figure of the _Wildling_ king the other Northern houses feared _shook_. “I seen many things but that one day – the _slaughter_. You're worried about your people. Your homes. Mine are _gone._ If we wait, the cold will thin us out. Then, when we're scattered and weak, the last of us will die. Those are not the stories I've heard of the North. You cunts can stay here and wait for death if you like but we're going back to kill those sons of dogs and this time, they'll stay dead. If we have to die, it'll be with an axe in our hand.”

Then, Tormund did the unthinkable. He spoke the Northern words.

“Winter is comin'!”

It continued on for hours. Politics reigning over sense. Petyr listened but true to his promise, said nothing. It was a good thing too for his preference wavered between help and hindrance depending on the speaker. Oddly, it was the fire witch that he settled on. He watched keenly as she stared into the flames. He could have sworn that sometimes, if the light was just right, her youth flickered and a withered creature took her place – sick with terror. He made a point to corner her alone.

His chance came later, when the meeting had finished and its members disbanded. Sansa and her brother remained in the room, arguing in whispers as wolves did. Petyr tracked the witch to another corner of the castle. Aside from a crack in one wall it was mostly intact.

“You may as well come in if you intend to linger,” Melisandre called through the door. He came in but not far, choosing to lay against the stone beside the door as if he hadn't decided to come in. “Such an odd creature you are,” she hissed. “I doubt even you know what you're about, sliding from bed to bed. What? Nothing to say?”

There were no flames in this room except a single lantern hanging from the wall. It rocked, scraping against the stone with its fragile light threatening the darkness.

“What you do not realise,” she continued, when his silence endured. “Is that I have seen your whole life in the flames. Your secrets. Your dreams. That flame-haired girl from the Riverlands whose hand you held one Summer. I've heard what you whisper beneath the Godwood.”

Petyr pressed himself against the freezing  _Winterfell_ wall. He didn't want to think about Cat. Where was she now? Eyes made of glass. Drifting below the water or frozen by Winter's claws, forever locked between worlds. Her beautiful flesh turned soft. No. He would not think of Cat.

No more than a child, thought Melisandre as she shook her head at the cowering boy. His eyes were the same sad, scared doors from the past. His life was made of straw – a gamble that would soon end.

“Now is the time for you to find your honour, Lord Baelish. If you have any left. Life is only for the most deserving at times like these.”

 


	55. Milkglass

 

###  **SANTAGAR – THE BROKEN ARM**

Daenerys draped off Quentyn's arm as though she were a jewel – a slither of diamond, shucked from a mythical ridge and inset with sapphire eyes which were fixed on the Dornish crowd.

Tales spread through the city of her scaled skin, a tail dragging from the hem of her dress and wings that folded back against her shoulders. The Dragon Queen. She deliberately embellished the common belief that she was part reptile with unnatural gestures, returning to the Western lands as a deity. There were no dragon banners hanging against village doors or tavern brawls in her honour but there _were_ whispers. They were spread on the wings of ravens. As a Spider once said, _'there is power in a whisper'._ It was palpable – like a mist gathering. Perhaps into a storm.

They entered the palace at _Santagar_ in a formal parade with Daenerys stepping barefoot over a patterned runner laid down to conceal the customary dirt floors. A pair of stuffed leopards leered at the end, locked in silent howls before a small rise on which stood a meagre throne made of palm. The Prince of _Santagar_ occupied it, drowning in his folds of embroidered orange silk. He was a young man, like his cousin with oval eyes drowned in charcoal and cinnamon skin which glistened with a powder made from crushed beetle wings. His hair was worn in the desert style – plaited in dozens of tight weaves with glass beads catching the torchlight. It was easy to see why Dorne was known as 'The Land of Princes'. There was one in every outpost.

Either side of him stood four guards. Enormous men, they carried seven foot spears coated in gold with snakes twisting up their lengths, each set with ruby eyes. In front of the Prince sat an assortment of young women and men in various states of undress with elaborate tattoos covering their flesh. They lounged over each other in ways designed to make foreigners blush.

Unfortunately for her host, Daenerys had spent most of her life in the company of _Dothraki_ instead of the reserved courts of _Westeros._ As if to press the point, as she approached the throne, Daenerys undid the gold sash holding her dress together and left it to tumble to the floor. Her dress loosened, falling apart at the front to rival the most risqué of them.

Tyrion swallowed hard and averted his eyes from the Queen's breasts to the crowd fanning themselves with palm leaves. There were nearly a hundred cramped into the low hall whose ceiling bore down on them in a cave-like fashion.

Custom called for guests to kneel before the Prince but Daenerys did not. Instead she stood too close with her strangely coloured eyes mesmerising the Prince until finally it was he who rose to his feet in kind and they bowed together.

“Princess Daenerys Targaryen, I presume...”

It should have been Varys to step forward now but instead Jorah moved beside the queen with his pair of swords scraping together and faint traces of illegible writing covering his skin. He introduced Her Grace with full titles, particularly lingering on _Queen of the Seven Kingdoms_ so that there could be no doubt to this Prince that she was his sovereign. So long as he drew breath, Jorah retained this honour. Besides, Daenerys often thought the words were laced with caution when they came from the mouth of a Northern warrior. Then there was the way he lingered at _Khaleesi_. The sound of it made a warm tingle run across her skin. She remembered how he'd whispered it. Murmured and uttered it into the wind. A thousand times. More. It was the last thing she heard in her dragon dreams.

“Yes well,” the Prince waved the knight off to the side, “you are as beautiful as they said. Too beautiful for my cousin. In my experience, women like yourself soon tire of such things. He is pretty too be sure but his soldiering will chip the exterior before long.”

“There are no woman such as me,” Daenerys countered. “Payment, as promised.”

She lifted her hand, stirring a troop of _Unsullied._ They dragged a crate up beside leaving nasty scratches in the earthen floor. Gold spilled. A coin that rolled too far was snapped up by the crowd. There was enough to rent his army and ensure safe passage to _Sunspear_ where they could bargain with another prince.

“As good as your word. Forgive me for doubting. Most creatures with famous names are barren as the desert.” A nod at his men whisked the payment away. “There are rooms in the palace for your company and the taverns in the village are open for any of your number. No violence or thievery.” He added sternly. “This is a peaceful trading port whose people are not accustomed to...” he looked particularly at the savages. _Dothraki_ she called them. He rather thought they had bred with horses and spirits of the East. As for the knight – he was a paradox with legs. A Northern knight with a Dragon Queen... The world must be at its end. “Cousin – a word in private if you will.”

Quentyn whispered against Daenerys' ear before he joined the other prince. Together they left the main room and vanished into the sprawl of mud and straw. They had no intention of returning to the festivities now that the pleasantries were over.

With the royalty gone, the crowd spilled from their seats and surrounded Daenerys' party. Particularly, they leered at the _Unsullied_ , fascinated by their dark skin and long limbs. Tyrion was forced to seek safety in Jorah's shadow when one particularly amorous man made a go at the buttons on his vest.

“Welcoming, aren't they?” Tyrion said, moderately afraid of their collective advances. Music started. Dancing followed. The hall became a writhing mess. In turn, the ambient heat rose until sweat dripped into the mud like rain.

“Evidently you've not been to Dorne.” Was Jorah's reply, as he kept a watchful eye on the Queen. The crowd remained tentative around her – touching Daenerys' silver hair with reverence. One began to plait it in the Prince's style.

“And you have?” Tyrion replied, surprised.

“Many times though it is always the same. Drinking. Fucking. Smoking.” A mirror of their current situation. “They are a land of pleasure. When the Dornish finally tire of peace everyone chooses a spear and makes war on whatever is closest. If you're looking for sense you've come to the wrong part of the kingdom.”

*~*~*

Many hours later, Missandei ambled along the bank of the canal, keeping to the open stretches away from the reeds. Every now and then she heard the splash of a crocodile slide beneath the surface of the silken depths. She could very nearly feel their presence – shadows waiting out of sight to latch onto something living.

The curtain of stars was different in the South-West. She tilted her head, barely able to make out the prominent patterns from her home. One of them, the Lazy Lion, was turned on its side, scraping the horizon toward the sea. There were new stars as well, including a trio that circled each other and on the furthest Northern edge, the bleeding comet that had once graced the skies above _Essos_. Although it appeared fixed, each night it edged a fraction closer to the frozen lands.

Footsteps trampled the mud behind. Swift. Disciplined. Those of a soldier. When they drew close Missandei spun, startling her purser.

“Please – wait,” Grey Worm stumbled slightly on the wet surface. He held a flaming torch aloft. A halo of insects followed in a plume, drawn to the light. Those that flew too close died with a flicker and burst of smoke. “It is not safe out here alone, in the dark.”

“Safe?” Missandei replied in amusement. Her tone was careless, as was the way she flirted with the water, letting it brush her toes. “We ride to war and you lecture me on safety? How odd... Come three moons we will _all_ find our homes under the dirt. I have no intention of cowering before Death.”

His eyes fell to the mud at their feet. Somehow he had caused offence. It was inevitable. There were many customs beyond his reach – pleasantries that _Unsullied_ failed to master, especially those regarding women.

“Grey Worm is sorry, if he has caused offence.”

He did not know what to do but follow at her heels. They walked for a while with only the crackle of his torch to break the tension. Where the reeds thickened and edged in on the water, Missandei paused.

“You have not offended me,” she assured him. “After months on the sea I wanted the feel of solid ground. Anything so long as it wasn't rocking underfoot. I can still feel it,” she lifted her slender arm, tilting it like the thrum of a wave, “– the to and fro. I was collecting my thoughts when you found me. That is all.” Her eyes were cast down, dodging the gaze of his naturally brown eyes.

Grey Worm accepted her words but he knew that those months on the sea had changed her forever. _The small man has changed her_ , he added, in a rare moment of darkness. Was this jealousy? He was foolish to think there were any prospects with Missandei. How could there be? She was a great woman and he a half-man – not even that. The imp was half a man while he remained a soldier. His Common Tongue was good enough, perhaps she had lost interest in their lessons and in turn, _him._

“Please, allow me to escort you back to the village.” He offered. “We are quite far from it now.”

“I'll walk a little while longer.”

“I walk with you.”

Missandei nodded. “If you like.”

Silently the pair trailed along the banks with the glow of the village on their backs and the moon lifting in front. Grey Worm tried to think of something further to say but all his words caught at his throat and died with the rustle of the reeds. He was crippled by the thought of Missandei fading into memory.

Lately his mind wandered to the great battles to come. If, by some grace of the gods, he survived his share then what remained for him? If peace fell over the realm and the bloodied ground covered with dust, there was no point to him. He had no home or family to retire into. Unlike a sword, he could not be laid to rest in a forge or remade with the turn of fire. For the first time he grasped why so many hated his kind. His very existence represented war.

What of Missandei? He had thought, briefly, that they might find some kind of life together in the Queen's service. He could patrol as a guard while Missandei remained in her court, pacing the marble halls in beautiful gowns in the _Westerosi_ style. She'd have rooms and house banners of her own. He would be content if all he did for the rest of his life was stand beside her door as a guard.

Those were foolish dreams.

Missandei would do as the women of the peaceful lands did – find a husband and a home, fill it with laughing children and live as he could not. For that reason, Grey Worm cherished these fearsome times.

He tossed his torch into the waters. Pale light replaced flame and together they moved deeper into the night.

*~*~*

“What do you think?” Tyrion half-hung from a window sill where a squat palm forced itself on the building with every breath of wind. The sharp foliage infringed upon him, scraping against his leg. He drank palm wine which stank and tasted sour on his lips. The fresh air helped keep the stupor of pending sleep at bay.

Varys had placed himself in the centre of the modest private room, hands in his sleeves as though he were afraid the dirt from the walls might brush off on his silk. This current existence flirted too close to his street-rat youth. “He's a shit.”

Daenerys and Jorah occupied large cushions laid over the mats in place of chairs. They shared a look at Varys' tone. Lately he had an air of fear about his general person. It followed Varys like a cloud from room to room. Whatever he held back from her council, she would discover in good time. There had been a great deal of ravens from his rooms.

“There is no other way to say it.” Varys defended. “ _Worse_ than I imagined him to be from our correspondence. That money we can scarce afford to part with walked out on long, toned legs. It _might_ and believe me that I stress the word, buy us safe passage to Sunspear but I have serious reservations regarding the promise of his army. Prince Doran did try to warn me. I should have listened. Houses built on sand shift underfoot.”

“On the other hand, Prince Quentyn disagrees with both you and Doran,” Tyrion countered. “He makes assurances for his cousin's honour. Considering they grew up together I'm inclined to lean on his judgement. Besides, money works in this part of the world. The Dornish are traders and Santagar is a city built on reputation. When they slit our throats how will that look? If they plan to murder us, it'll be _after_ the war in King's Landing – not before. You may sleep soundly in your web tonight.”

If Varys was ever inclined to drink, now would be the time. He felt as though he were in the middle of a misstep – that he'd made a rare error in his usually infallible judgement. He started to pace again, ducking away as though a chasm appeared underfoot. The wars in the North weighed on his mind.

“Sit down before you wear a hole in the dirt floor,” Tyrion sighed, calming drinking the vile liquid. He was either going to sleep like the dead or become one of them. “We have a huge army of our own and thousands of savage warriors scattered through the town. Only an idiot would seek to raise a hand against us. The Prince is many things – an idiot is not one of them. I can spot those – miles away.”

“An army who are half-starved and plied with drink. I've seen worse odds.”

Daenerys and Jorah sat between them observing the odd council of wits they'd dragged across the sea. This was the result of living in each other's pockets. They needed time apart before they irritated each other into death.

“Both of you – go to bed or take this discussion elsewhere,” Daenerys commanded. “I am tired.”

Varys turned tail and went willingly. It took longer for Tyrion to pry himself off the window sill and stumble across the room. Before he left, he swiped a fresh bottle of palm wine and bowed at the queen. He followed Varys, the pair of them determined to argue until dawn. Tyrion because he was bored. Varys because he was incapable of ignoring Tyrion.

“Their perpetual worrying is exhausting,” Daenerys explained, when she and Jorah were alone. The lanterns burned low, smoking the room with scented oil. It helped to keep the gnats and river insects at bay but it was also suffocating. She watched the artful swirls of it catch on idle breezes and spiral off toward the window. The palm leaf scraped against the dry mud. Such an odd mix of wealth and poverty. She recognised the perfume from deep in her childhood memories.

“Imagine if they'd been with us in the Red Waste.” Jorah replied, causing the Queen to stifle a laugh. There were times when he could still feel the burn on his skin from those months in the desert. He had been certain they would die there – turning to bone amid the weathered limestone caves and great swathes of red dirt.

“They'd never have made it by the headless riders and Varys would have taken exception to the ruling class of Qarth. He doesn't like a measure to his own wit.”

“Wine?”

Daenerys sniffed the goblet and drew away, coughing. “Tyrion has a stomach of iron. I'd rather drink the sea.”

“Or not at all.” Jorah set the glass down on the ground. “This Prince will keep his word. All of them. Dorne has helped your cause since you were a child. We have the benefit of knowing what they want. A share of the Crown, as it was when Dragons ruled. Simplicity is the key to success in this part of the world. I saw the way you observed their culture – perhaps it lingers on the edge of slavery but whatever it stirs in you, I beg that you set those thoughts aside. We cannot give into the temptation to play politics in their city. The Dornish hate it. They've had the Kings of Westeros at their door for centuries. Every demand pushes them further into their own world. Like it or not, we need them at our side now.”

“I know,” Daenerys nodded in promise. Even if she came to rule Dorne, it would be in name only. They were a free province. “That's not what worries me.” Despite the heat she felt a chill across her arms. “For a while now I've been dreaming of sand dunes. Not – _those_ kinds of dreams,” she quickly amended. “In my sleep there is always a single skull, half covered in sand. It lingers with a view of the sea then tumbles down, rolling over and over until it blows away as if it never was.”

“Maybe it is only a dream,” Jorah offered. “Those are mysteries to all of us. Meaningless wisps of thought held together.”

Daenerys lay back on the cushions, staring at the ceiling. It too was made of mud. The lamps left halos of soot on the surface that almost became the eyes of skulls.

“That is what I tell myself,” she replied, playing with the smooth material of her dress. She had forgot to replace her sash earlier. The dress hung open, revealed to the firelight, warm breeze and Jorah's gaze. He never lingered more than a moment, casting his eye to some other thing.

*~*~*

Arya abandoned her bed for the hallways of the strange Dornish palace. Her footsteps were silent in the dirt allowing her to move like a spirit from door to door. Snores warred in the night. The parties were done and only those that had paid for whores writhed and moaned with a stark slither of light around their doors. She sidestepped these intrusions into her world.

The imp's room was comically large. A joke, she imagined, at his expense. The bed was a waste for he had collapsed on the floor and lay there now, head resting on his arm with his fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle. She could smell the alcohol from the door. It made the ground sodden beneath his arm. All his lamps had died leaving the moon to slither in with its pale hue. It turned his golden hair silver.

She did this often.

Lingering above his helpless form with the _Needle's_ blade poised to strike his flesh. She earned a surge of power from it. _I could kill you_ , she'd think to herself, _and no one would know. Only the gods and the edge of my sword._ Sometimes she flirted death so fervently that her blade prodded Tyrion's cloak. Once, aboard the ship, a scratch was left across his neck.

Each time temptation rose, Arya pulled herself back. _I cannot kill him. I need him._ If Tyrion died the dragon might lose the war for _King's Landing._ Arya wanted the dragon to win, if only to see more Lannisters die. Cersei was on her list. Then, when that war was done, the Bear knight promised to take her North. Her name was in the North. A face for a faceless god. That god must have it.

She left the imp sleeping and climbed out his window, vaulting onto the flat roofs where she chased cats. Finally, when the night was thick, Arya fell asleep watching the moon and dreamed of wolves.

*~*~*

“What do you whisper?” Daenerys asked.

She and Jorah lay on the floor together. Neither had the will to move and, as the evening was so pleasant, they remained strewn over the pillows and silk. He had thought she was asleep and had taken to uttering old words.

“Nothing,” he replied. “A song from Bear Island the fishermen ramble at the tide.”

Rolling over, she placed one of her delicate hands on his chest. “Say them again...”

Jorah's voice rolled into a true Northern accent where the vowels lingered and one word spilled into the other, like successive waves upon the rocks.

“ _I wander upon a broken shore,_

_on iron bones and raven's eyes._

_Milkglass are my winter moons,_

_rough her frosts the tide made raw._

_Into the bay the great ice floes die,_

_under waves, songs from the runes_

_come with a rush of bone, of smoke and salt,_

_shell, rock, gold and tempered steel._

_Then nothing cold can move to breathe._

_A city fallen, stars brought to halt._

_Blood stilled in a parchment's seal._

_A broken shore, where black waters seethe.”_

  
  


Daenerys was certain that Darry – _no, Jeor_ – she corrected, used to sing such things by the fire. “What is 'Milkglass'?”

“An odd occurrence,” Jorah replied. “To some it looks similar to Valyrian Steel but it is darker. Milkglass is pale like smoke trapped in stone. Often it shines with flecks of silver. Impossible to make – it must be found. Traders strip it from mines in Yi Ti. Others pick it out of the Plains of the Jogos Nai. It lays on the ice around Bear Island and sometimes the Crows lag it back from their ranging to buy supplies. Here too,” he half nodded at the window. “If you look carefully at the dunes tomorrow you might see pieces of it catch the sun.”

“I feel like I've heard of it before.”

“That is likely, Your Grace,” Jorah replied. “All the noble children are taught the names of the Valyrian swords but one is actually made of Milkglass. They call it 'Dawn'. By all accounts it is the most beautiful of the set and far older than the rest. It is not truly a Valyrian sword at all. The Dornish house of Dayne have carried it in their family for ten thousand years.” The edge of his lip turned into a smile. “If you believe in such things, legend goes that Milkglass is formed from the shattered heart of a fallen star that set the world on fire.”

Her eyes fell closed. _Yes, she had seen that sword._ Night after night, coated in thick veils of blood. Dawn protruded from the ice, marking a grave. _She knew that sword and now it had a name._

“I want to see it.”

Jorah, who had also allowed himself to edge toward sleep, frowned. “That is not possible.”

*~*~*

“Mormont – it's late. I'm tried. There is nowhere to sit and write and the glare of the moon is unbearable. Cuts straight through the window, you see? I could read by that wretched severed orb.” Varys had changed into his plain black robes. The sight of him came off wrong. Varys without his grandeur was a palace without courtiers. Nevertheless, he crossed his arms and waited for an explanation out of the knight.

“The Queen has a request.” Jorah carefully closed the door and stared at a patch on the floor, wondering how to proceed.

“Well, it cannot be all that bad,” Varys attempted to pry the truth from him. Eventually Varys realised that the request was something dire. “You best go right ahead and say it.”

“She has ordered me to steal the Dornish great-sword.”

Varys swayed toward the open window, embedding his hand in the dirt to steady himself. He looked to the moon and shook his head, speaking to the night.

“You cannot _steal_ Dawn,” he whispered, “without setting a terrible curse upon your entire lineage and any fool stupid enough to help you. A thousand generations of Bears set to the slaughter...” He rounded on Jorah, who quite rightly had gone pale. “Mind you, with no sons or daughters to your name, perhaps you'd be fool enough to try. Even if you were, it cannot be done. What does she want with a sword when she has dragons? The damn thing is nearly as big as her. She could not wield it.”

“She has seen it in her visions,” Jorah lowered his voices, stepping right up to Varys until they were toe-to-toe. They rivalled each other for height and, had Varys ever cared for it, he'd have been fearsome in his own right. “Thrust in the snows up North.”

Now it was Varys' turn to sicken. Fate was not a mistress to argue with. “Leave...” he eventually placed a hand on Mormont's chest. “And do not speak of this again. I will find you.”

Jorah left and headed to his room. It was adjacent to the Queen on the inner side of the palace, lacking so much as a window. A few vents cut into the mud allowed the smoke from the lantern to leave. He unstrapped the pair of swords from his waist and laid them on the table beside. Ice lay with steel. Jorah knew that if they clashed too hard, the steel would quickly shatter. He'd been through two others that had met that fate, vanishing into dust.

Laying on the bed, he watched the shadows play until they became darkness and he fell into a restless sleep.

His dreams began afresh, vivid as the Winter sky.

###  **THE GIFT – THE NORTH**

###  **280 AC**

Dacey crawled out of the snow, pushing the powder aside as she struggled through its freezing depths, burdened by a sack. Its contents slid around, grinding and pulling her to the side with their weight. Eventually she stumbled on a protrusion of rock and landed, face against the freezing drift.

The world was white. _The Gift,_ named 'curse' in jest, stretched from frozen forest to cliff-lined shore then into the East where an ice-bearing ocean rolled by the ruins of black fortresses, long since collapsed into the water. In front, winds kicked over the flat, collecting snow and sending it bolting over the ice until it tumbled into pellets that cut her face leaving her flesh lacerated. Once a lake, the waters beneath and all the dead entombed had paused when the Summer ended. Cracks littered the surface and in their hearts, an unusual blue that almost challenged the sky. She caught her glove in one of their sharp edges but the wound was old and the base of ice solid enough to walk over.

The mountains on her left had started to shrink, replaced by their Northern brothers which, though faint and pale, dwarfed them to the point she had mistook them for clouds. Above, a half moon wandered overhead, marauding in broad daylight as a pink curve.

Dacey screamed in frustration at the silence. Her voice vanished – sucked from the world.

Days passed and with them any remaining warmth. Shadowing the _King's Road_ , she kept to the patches of forest that thrust out of the snow. These pines weren't like the ones on _Bear Island._ They were shorter, fat with age but stunted by the cold. Their bark was white with dark trails betraying the path of snow-squirrels who jumped about sending cascades of snow from above.

She must be close to _The Wall_. Dacey could feel its presence. The monument held sway over the land, affecting it in untold ways. Jorah used to say that it was the magic of the Children. With the hairs on her neck quivering, she believed him.

It was only when she crashed through the last bank of pines that she finally laid eyes on the monstrosity. Blue, like a wave suspended before the crest, _The Wall_ reached toward the sky. It was so tall it almost _became_ the sky. Mance said that he had scaled it with spikes and rope – more than once. If that was true then _Free Folk_ truly were the keepers of the North.

The stench of _Castle Black_ carried for miles. They burned their dead, piling them high on the outskirts of their castle, surrounding them with offcuts from the carpentry before setting the whole thing ablaze. The smoke never rose high enough to clear _The Wall_ so instead it carried along the surface, creating a dark ridge near the top like a sickly band in the cross section of a felled tree.

Rangers jeered at her when she approached. Dacey silenced them by pulling side her fur to reveal the Mormont insignia. Then they bowed their heads and directed her toward the Lord Commander.

Jeor Mormont was a studious man, as at home with his books as he was wielding steel. He sat opposite the Old Targaryen whose blind eyes reflected the burning lanterns. He was drawn to its heat rather than the light, staring sightless into its flickering depths. Jeor often wondered if the blind saw things the rest could not beyond the haze of life's chaotic veneer. Or was it simply that fire ran in his blood? The kingdom had long forgotten that a Targaryen lingered at the edge of the world. _He'd have made a fine king_ , Jeor thought. Even blind and old.

A knock at the door drew his attention. Maester Aemon stilled his withered tongue and turned toward the sound. “Peculiar thing,” he rattled, “a woman at The Wall.”

Aemon was correct. The door scratched across the groove in the floor, opening to reveal a woman dragging a sack half her size. It took a moment for his eyes to pry away the layers of fur and filth but there was no doubt.

“Dacey!” Jeor stood at once, pacing forward. He ushered her over to the fire, forcing her to sit until the first layer of ice fell away. It was an hour before she could speak, clutching warmed cider in shaking hands. His niece was a strong woman, built for the vast wastelands of ice and rock but her journey had wearied the strength right from the bone. “I did not think you were coming back...” He added, lowering his voice.

The old dragon, who could have heard a pine needle drop, listened from his perch at the Lord Commander's table.

“I swore that I would.” The hot water burned her weathered lips. “There were – complications.” _A complication._

Jeor dragged his chair closer. Even inside, with the fires burning high, he wore a layer of fox fur. The nights were getting longer and the days ever more brief. The sun set behind _The Wall_ early in the afternoon leaving _Castle Black_ in prolonged twilight. A fresh batch of men from the realm trained outside his window, several stories below. Fewer than the last lot and a worse sort of man. There was a time when taking the Black held honour, now it was the retreat of men who feared the blade breathing on their neck. It was all the same to the ice. They'd have their souls and the good men too.

“You mean... they were actually _there?_ ”

“As the fisherwoman said,” Dacey nodded. She dragged the bag across the floor and left it by his feet. Jeor unwound the top and peaked inside, startling at the three enormous orbs of patterned rock inside. Three perfect dragon eggs.

Jeor sat back, the fabric of the sack between his fingers. Each one could buy an army – three, perhaps a throne. It was more money than a Mormont had ever seen – more than their entire civilisation from the first felled tree to the Keep. There was a moment, however brief, that Jeor thought about bribing the debts his son owed. Even and honourable man like Ned Stark could not refuse such riches, then his boy could return – claim his crown and _live_.

“I did not find them alone,” Dacey added, recovering her voice. The smoke from the fire did her good. “Mance Rayder was already within Winterfell's walls searching for the same thing and unlike us, he knew where to look. I got the feeling he'd been searching for some time. No...” She took another deep sip. “I did not steal these from him – or kill him. Uncle, I need to ask you to put aside the centuries of rage you hold against this man and listen to what he told me.”

Dacey spoke of the _Free Folk's_ plan to gift the dragon eggs to the Targaryens in _King's Landing_ in the hope that they might hatch and return one day. There were terrible things gathering in the farthest corners of the _Free Folk_ empire – slaughtered beasts were found butchered and re-formed, placed in demonic patterns within the forest. Sightings of pale men, seven foot tall with blue eyes were told by every tribe. Children were whisked into the night while their mothers screamed. There was no end. Even the _Thenn_ cowered.

“Winter _is_ coming,” Dacey finally said. “The bloody Starks were right, after all these years but they had no idea what lingered in their crypt. Mance patrols The Wall because the North is closing in on his people, pressing them up against the boundary that separates them from the rest of the kingdom.”

Jeor was alarmed. “Do you mean to say that there are forty-thousand Wildling murderers amassing at the foot of The Wall while we speak?” He could hold this position comfortably at _Castle Black_ but if Mance and his army of violent thieves wandered in either direction they'd find empty monoliths guarding the ice. Any of those would fall if pushed.

“We – must stop them...”

“No...” Dacey reached across, taking his arm. “Uncle, you must _listen._ ”

“The child is right,” Aemon said, shuffling closer to the fire. In his hands were the innards of an ancient book, its cover stripped and pages turned yellow from the light. This King Beyond The Wall had heard the Targaryen legend of dragon eggs smuggled North – by his own brother, Brynden Rivers. Lost to the wandering snow in the furthest reaches beyond _The Wall_ , perhaps the two had met. “The eggs are real but we cannot hand them to a Targaryen. Aerys has the kingdom on a knife edge. When it falls into the abyss any relics will be sold across the seas and become lost to us.”

“I brought them here for safe keeping,” Dacey whispered.

“And where is the other one?” Aemon asked, opening the bag. “There were four eggs, not three.”

Dacey looked away toward the fire. “Mance has it. He is taking it to Bear Island to bury in the snow where it will be safe. He calls it their last hope.”

For a long time Aemon sat in his crooked chair. He ran his bony fingers along the crinkled pages. _'The Death of Dragons'_ was faintly visible, scrawled on one of the ruined sheets. “We will need the help of the Starks,” he finally said. “Winter is on its way but not in my hour. We must make preparations and then lie in wait.” Then, sadly, he turned to Jeor, placing a hand on the Lord Commander's shoulder. “You, my friend, may see the first of the last snows. It begins under your watch.”

Dacey was the last to speak. “There's something else...” she whispered, eyes full of terror.

###  **SANTAGAR – THE BROKEN ARM**

“Have you searched the taverns?” Daenerys asked, the next morning when the party was preparing to return to the boats.

The _Dothraki_ had mounted their horses and started on the dirt road toward _Sunspear_. A night of drinking and sex left them renewed. They sang as they followed the path between the dunes and the ocean, leaving a great stain of dust on the sky. The Prince's promised army joined them, flanking both sides with glaring banners with leopards and suns.

The _Unsullied_ waited on board the ships. Their commander was missing.

“All of them, Your Grace,” Jorah replied. He'd been out all morning, dragging whores from their beds – searching for Grey Worm. Sweat stained his face and shirt alike. “A merchant saw him head to the banks of the canal and nothing after that. I've walked it. Twice. All the way to the edge where it meets the sea.”

“He's never late,” Daenerys whispered, stepping closer to Jorah. Then added under her breath. _“Never.”_ Her stomach turned. If Grey Worm wasn't here then he wasn't coming. “You don't' think...”

“There are creatures in the water,” he replied carefully.

“He's not a foolish man – why walk alone at night?”

Jorah had no answer. They both knew that Grey Worm was dead.

 


	56. For The Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my nan, who passed away on Friday. She was always a great one for stories.

 

###  **SANTAGAR – THE BROKEN ARM**

The crowd of desert dwelling merchants covered their heads, turning away from the sudden thrash of hot wind on their faces. It had begun over the waves as two shadows diving near the scattering of islands off the Dornish coast. Then, when morning dragged on and the sea fog burned away, the dragons turned their noses in the direction of _Dorne._ They came at the land with wings stretched and tails rippling behind them as though they were serpents of the air.

After days spent submerged in the sea they smelled of fish. _Drogon's_ black scales were encrusted with salt and the wounds from _Bear Island_ had closed over neatly. Some left pale grey scars cross-hatching the softer parts of his flesh. They blended into the rune-like markings that he was born with. _Rhaegal_ had grown again with his green colouring dividing into shards of emerald and ochre. Horns edged his spine, black like his teeth except for the two above his eyes which seemed to be cast from gold. If anything, he was a child of the sea and forest that made his home in the sky.

Together, they tilted backwards when they neared the ground, flapping their wings in furious gasps as their feet touched the sand in front of the Prince's army. Sand whipped into a frenzy then spiralled through the air dozens of feet above their heads before raining down over the line of shields and spears in a storm that lasted several minutes.

The Dornish Prince was the first to lower his shield. A sheet of sand slid off, revealing his insignia of two leopards joined in fight. Instead of fear, his eyes were lustful. By the gods, such sublime terror had not graced their shores in more than a hundred years. The Prince longed for their return. He kept dragon bones in his palace laid out in reverence of the fire-lizards, plucked from the sands near the river where several had fallen in the Dance of Dragons. Who would not worship such violence? It is why he answered Quentyn's ravens. The Prince wanted nothing more than to stand beside a dragon in the terror of war and feel their fire on the air.

 _Drogon_ dwarfed the largest war ship – nearly twice _Rhaegal's_ size. As he stalked across the sand, the Dornish felt vibrations in the bedrock. Together, the army knelt before the pair of playful dragons, tilting their shields away from the sun so as not to startle them. The Dornish had fought with dragons for a thousand years. It stirred something in them to see the creatures again.

The Prince raised his hand. His army acted as one great instrument, twisting their shields in the coarse sand to make a hissing sound. The dragons rose up on their hind legs, flapping their wings again. Then they opened their throats, caught in some ancient ritual and began to sing. It echoed over the sands – the song of dragons.

Invigorated, the _Dothraki_ hollered in unison and the desert came alive.

Daenerys watched impassively. Jorah was coming up the dirt track by the water, head down against the sand with the glare of the freshly risen sun beating his pale Northern flesh. He startled at the dragons then paused for a moment, watching them sing. _Was that pride?_ Daenerys thought quietly. She often wondered at the soft way he watched her dragons.

“Khaleesi...” he said, after they had spoken for some time. “I could – search again, if you wish...”

Jorah followed Daenerys anxiously when she wandered along the road beside her fleet. The eyes of the _Unsullied_ commanders hung on every breath between them.

Their preparations for departure were nearly complete. Behind, the last troop of _Unsullied_ returned from the city with empty looks. They bore no further news of Grey Worm.

“Grey Worm has vanished with the snap of the gods' fingers.” Jorah added, softly. One way or another, he was dead. They all knew it. Jorah could see it in the eyes of his men lining the decks of the Queen's fleet. They were restless, clutching at ropes or cleaning their weapons. Varys was speaking with a group of their commanders now. Nodding and muttering. Jorah guessed that they were agreeing to instate the next general.

“What is that?” The Prince asked, kicking his horse until it fell in step beside his cousin's.

The armies were marching, taking the fastest road to _The Sunspear_ . It was three day's ride but their way was dotted with outposts and feed for the horses who desperately needed a run after their voyage. The _Dothraki_ broke formation, surging up into the dunes that lined the road, chasing each other in manic frenzies until one horse lost its footing and the whole mess tumbled back to the road – unharmed. Cheers erupted. The Dornish army watched the savages, keeping their perfect configuration.

“A _khalasaar,_ ” replied Quentyn. “Don't be fooled by their manner. When they ride to war, make sure that you're behind them. These are the creatures that pushed the filthy half-men from the Dothraki Sea into the Bone Mountains and held the Eastern free cities to ransom for nearly a thousand years. The Westerosi practice rules of engagement – these people will tear their limbs and scatter Andal gizzards in the mud while they rape whatever remains breathing.”

“If the dragons don't get their first,” the Prince added. “I thought you said there were three.”

“There are,” Quentyn replied. “Her third flies with another of her commanders though she refuses to say when he will arrive.”

“Let her hoard her secrets. A woman must have them, even a queen. Keep in mind what we're after, Quentyn. We're not here to play at soldiering.”

“I know exactly why we're here,” he assured his cousin. “Are you certain you can buy the other cities out?”

“The gold your dragon queen surrendered to us will suffice. We've cut supplies to them for months. They'd fight for a scrap of meat.”

Quentyn nodded and then rode on ahead, preferring the company of the queen's hoard to his brooding cousin. Varys was half right. He was not a trustworthy man by nature however, if properly motivated, he was a valuable warrior.

By the water, Daenerys and Jorah climbed aboard one of the ships to join Varys and the other _Unsullied_ commanders.

“We must prepare to leave,” she said, to which Varys nodded.

“Everything is arranged, Your Grace. May I present the new leader of the Unsullied army.” As Varys spoke one of the soldiers stepped forward. He was a tall man, half a head above both Varys and Jorah and twice as thick as Grey Worm. His eyes were made of amber, unusual for an _Unsullied_ warrior.

“This one is 'Black Scale',” the _Unsullied_ introduced himself.

Varys leaned in. “He has styled himself after your dragon.”

Daenerys nodded. “Black Scale, this fleet is under your command. Sail them South to the Sunspear. The harbour man has orders to allow you to dock. Fly the Dornish banners. No one leaves the ships until we arrive. We are guests in this land and we will practice peace – even if provoked.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Then Black Scale turned and yelled directions to the ships. Men were thrown into a frenzy. A moment later, the great red sail unfurled and inflated with the wind.

She left Varys and Tyrion on board as the fleet's guardians. They had requested to sail. The Westerosi preferred to travel by water. It was softer on their bodies which were too used to the comfortable living of palace life. Besides, it worked in her favour. If Doran Martell tried to make contact she trusted Varys to manage negotiations.

“Thank you,” Daenerys whispered, as she took Jorah's hand and stepped back onto the sand. Their fingers locked together briefly, as though the Queen were looking for something to hold on to.

Jorah prepared their horses. The Queen mounted her pale mare, stroking its braided mane as it shivered under her touch and pawed at the ground. Jorah was beside her on a black stallion with shells woven into its hair. They were beautiful creatures, gifts from the Prince. She admired their horsemanship. The beasts were well trained and full of spirit if not slightly leaner than the _Dothraki_ beasts.

“Your dragons are singing.”

“They appear to have a fondness for war,” she replied.

“Fire and blood, _Khaleesi_ ,” he reminded her. “This is what they were born for.”

“And Viserion?” She looked over to her knight. He was half ruined from the morning spent searching for Grey Worm. “Where is he, Jorah? He is my child too. I know that he is alive, somewhere in the world. Has he abandoned me and turned wild? I hear, sometimes, that dragons disappear.”

He shook his head. “No. He's making his way back to you. Dragons are smart,” he promised. “They're not beasts like horses. Viserion will return when it is time and not before. Have you seen him in your dreams?”

“No. I never see my dragons in my dreams.” They were both quiet. “I worry,” she continued, “what if they never live to see the North? I know that we take the Iron Throne but what if the cost is...” Daenerys couldn't even say it.

“There may be other reasons the dragons aren't in your visions. We don't know how they work. There have been so few true dreamers in the world. Even amongst your own kind, you are rare.”

“You would tell me, wouldn't you...”

“Tell you what?”

“If you'd found something of Grey Worm... There is no need to protect me from the truth.”

“I would never dare hide the truth from you again,” he assured her.

“Is your leg healed enough to ride?”

Jorah nodded. There was a scar where the poisoned arrow had entered. Even that was nearly faded. The poison remained in his blood, latching onto his sanity when the heat rose. It was a tide with a restless moon. He was learning to accept that it was part of him now.

As the caravan marched toward the capital of _Dorne_ , the two dragons tired of walking and took to the sky, circling them high above in the thermals.

###  **THE GIFT – THE NORTH**

###  **280 AC**

“The kingdom is in a state of collapse.”

Jeor, not long seated in his role as Lord Commander, transferred the three dragon eggs into a chest they'd dragged out of the library. He wrapped them in old robes and carefully shuffled them in, side by side before placing his palm over one of them. Its surface was warm, unlike the stone walls of _Castle Black._ They were enthralling – neither living nor dead.

He closed the lid on the trunk, snapping the latches into place. “There is a contact in Pentos sympathetic to our fears but I dare not trust a man who makes his money out of trading valuables with relics such as these.”

“Then what are we to do with them?” Dacey asked. She had changed into a Night's Watch uniform and sat at the table with Jeor and Aemon picking at a dry cleave of bread. “They cannot stay here either. I know that all your men swear allegiance to The Watch but half of them are thieves. If word slips by that there are dragon eggs in your room, you'll see what their oaths are worth.”

“I agree...” Aemon nodded. “Men's honour is stronger in the face of death than the vanity of temptation. The eggs must go South but not across the sea.”

“No...” Dacey set her glass of mead down when all eyes, blind and clear, fell on her. “I'm not taking them back through all that snow. Where would I go? I belong in the North. I am coming home.”

“My dear,” Maester Aemon continued. “The Wall is no place to raise a child. You _must_ head South once it is born, whether you wish it or not.”

Jeor looked away. It was not unusual for the Mormont women to branch out into the world and return with child. The diversity of their blood kept the tiny island strong. Scholars in _Old Town_ were fascinated by their habits. They were the only culture South of _The Wall_ to casually raise children from various, unofficial partners – a lingering tribute to their ancient roots.

“Mance Rayder's child...” Jeor guessed. He stared at Dacey until finally she met his eyes and nodded with a strained dip of her head. “Then that is worse. The child is Wildling royalty. They will come for it – whisk it into the North and you'll never see it again.”

“I could go the island.” Her reply was wistful. She missed the silence of _Bear Island,_ the smoky halls and forests of pine. It was the only place in the realm where she found herself at rest.

“You cannot do that either. If anyone finds out the child is part _Wildling_ they'll kill it.”

Her head fell into her hands. She was so tired. Under the weight of it all, she felt the unexpected creep of affection for Mance. In their weeks together there had been something more than lust between them. As with so many treasures in the North, their time was brief. They both knew as they parted outside the walls of _Winterfell_ that they'd never see each other again. He'd given her the eggs, held her against the bleeding trunk of the _Weirwood_ and kissed her until neither of them could breathe. When she had opened her eyes, Mance was gone.

“There is only one place in the realm that you can hide a treasure,” Aemon continued, speaking of the eggs. “Dorne.” The Dornish and the Targaryens shared history to the conquest. They were a wealthy nation who'd protect rather than flog away the valuable items. Aemon himself was the child of a Dayne. “You can raise the child in the mountains, away from any curious eyes. I know the Martell prince. He is, above all else, a patient man.”

That is what they agreed. Jeor sent the ravens and Dacey settled in for her confinement at _The Wall_. There she sat for months, staring through the constant snowfalls at the barrier of ice that divided their worlds. Near her window, the threads of a rose tangled in the crumbling stone. A bud was forming, laid against the cold with petals blue as the water beneath the snow drifts.

###  **THE SUNSET SEA**

“Obviously, we cannot steal the sword from Starfall.”

“Obviously.” Varys agreed wholeheartedly with Tyrion. “To do so is madness. Dorne would turn on the Queen and we'd never make it to King's Landing.”

Tyrion drew an imaginary line with his hands across the table. “A flat _no._ ”

“Agreed.”

“Well, that's settled then. We advise the Queen against her order and continue preparations for war on King's Landing with the Dornish princes.”

“I'm afraid you misunderstand,” Varys lowered his voice and shuffled, if possible, closer to the Lannister. “How well do you understand our Queen's visions?”

“A little. I was always fascinated by the Targaryens. I spent a lot of time confined to my rooms when I was younger so I've read and most of the histories. The dreams are prophetic. Their are books on them in the citadel.”

“There are very few true dreamers in history and I mean _all_ of history, through to Valyria itself. It is entirely plausible that Daenerys is the most gifted dreamer that has ever lived, even more than Daenys. And we all know how those dreams ended.”

“Let us hope that hers don't end with the 'Doom of Westeros'.”

“That is the point...” Varys proceeded darkly. “This conversation was intended for a later date but it appears that we must have it now.”

“Varys, you are worrying me.”

“I am worrying myself.” Before continuing, Varys closed the door and porthole windows. He struck a match and they sat in relative darkness with one candle shared between them despite the blaring sun outside the ship.

The noise of the sea was killed and now Tyrion was left with the beat of his own heart loudly in his chest cavity. Most of the time, Varys was an innocuous mentor but sometimes, very rarely, Tyrion glimpsed the terrifying creature beneath his placid exterior. The Spider in its lair of webs, waiting for the world to find his threads. Perhaps he shared company with the most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms.

“We are sailing for war,” he assured Tyrion. “And I have no doubt that a great deal of blood will be spilled on the pink stone of King's Landing. Wretched place. Built on bones.” He paused. Varys had delved too deep into _King's Landing's_ secrets. “I also know that Daenerys will be queen of the Seven Kingdoms at the close. Even without the prophecy, these things are set. I've seen the board and her hand is firm. Your sister might hold against the weight of the army but with three dragons in tow...” _King's Landing_ would burn. “But Daenerys' dreams are not about the Iron Throne, Tyrion. Her attention wandered from that long ago. She looks ever further North.”

“Has Mormont been whispering things in her ear at-”

“She has seen the war to come,” Varys cut him short. “The only war that matters. I know that you have stood at The Wall. What did you feel when you looked up on the ice? I am curious. I've not had the pleasure.”

“What did I feel?” Tyrion rolled the curious question. “That I wish it were taller.”

“Height won't matter when the seas begin to freeze. The Bay of Ice will be first.”

When Varys was done, Tyrion felt too ill to drink. Everyone heard the whispers from the North one way or another but they were disregarded as superstitious fantasists.

“That is why she had dragons...” Tyrion realised. “Targaryens and sorcerers have been trying to hatch dragon eggs for more than a hundred years. I should have guessed that there was a purpose for their sudden return beyond a chair made of fallen men's swords. Incredible, how pitiable our dreams are when we see the rest of the story laid out.”

Varys' thin lips were tightened further. “That is her burden,” he replied. “Now you see why she stands on deck, staring at the water. The East changed her forever. She is a Queen of war. Daenerys will never rule the Seven Kingdoms. Her dynasty is made of ghosts.”

“I was so sure...” he murmured absently. “The day I watched a silver-haired girl take a dragon to the skies I thought, 'there is our queen'. I wanted – still want – to see her sit that nightmare throne.” She was a better queen than the outskirts of his family, clinging to power at the expense of the realm. Cersei knew nothing of ruling and her boy was too young to grasp the terrible weight of the crown. “Who will rule if not Daenerys?” He kept his voice low.

“Ah...” Breathed Varys, reaching forward to play with the dancing flame. He let his fingertips linger in the light before the heat caught his skin. Then he'd pull them free, causing the light to bend and dance. “That is the only card we hold. After Daenerys takes the throne she will have the legal right to name her successor. With no possibility of children and no kin, two nobles houses will be chosen.” There was a pause. “That is, assuming, there is anything left to rule.”

“But we need that promise to win the throne in the first instance.”

“Correct...” Varys nodded. “A dangerous game – one built on smoke. None of our pieces are real until we win.”

“I would not go so far as to say that,” Tyrion replied. It was his turn to linger on the flame. “Those fire-breathing nightmares are flesh. Real enough for most. You have spent too long with your whispers, Varys and forgotten what is real. You say that these dreams of hers are fate and in them is the milkglass sword. That does not mean we have to steal it.”

“What other choice do we have? The Dornish are not going to hand over the most valuable relic in their kingdom to a marauding dragon queen. Even amongst their own people, only a knight bearing the Dayne name may wield it. They'd rather it gather dust for a thousand years than allow an unworthy hand to touch the hilt.”

“Precisely.” Tyrion whispered. “Daenerys _is_ a Dayne by blood. Her great-great-grandmother was Dyanna Dayne.”

Varys was embarrassed to have missed what Tyrion saw easily. “That may not be enough. Only a knight and a swordsman of impeccable reputation may claim the title, 'Sword of the Morning'.”

“They may make an exception for the future queen of the realm. Even so, she has a knight who might wield it in her stead.”

The Spider laughed aloud. “A North man, carry a Dornish blade? Prince Martell would rather slit his own throat.”

“We'll see,” Tyrion replied. “The Southern Queen rides with a Lannister, Mormont and half the Eastern realm. The old rules fall at the first sight of night.”

*~*~*

Missandei, also aboard the Queen's ships, kept to her room. The Stark girl crept around the boat, chasing rats or climbing into the rigging where the _Unsullied_ had to fish her out of the ropes. She was a wild creature who could never be returned to privileged life.

In private, Missandei untied her dress, picking apart the layers until it fell to the floor. Inside near the hem, a stain of blood sullied the trim. She bent down, gathering it up before submerging it in a bucket of freezing water. She left it there, watching the stain fade into the water, removing the final trace of Grey Worm from the world.

*~*~*

Their first night in the desert reminded Dany of the restless world beyond _Meereen_. The stars were littered above them, interrupted by fireflies which lived in limestone caves, dotted through the dunes. When the temperature cooled and night approached, they detached from the walls and scattered overhead.

Daenerys preferred to sleep directly on the sand without a tent. Her fire had been hushed long ago and she had only to look down over the rest of the camp. The _Dothraki_ ravaged along the edge with enormous bonfires. Behind them, the Dornish smoked special pipes and drank with their whores and finally, the _Unsullied_ kept the peace. They were holding a memorial for Grey Worm, laying palms as prayer mats where they took turns kneeling. It was their custom to prayer to the gods the deceased worshipped. Tonight, those prayers were to Daenerys. Grey Worm had no god but the queen.

“You must attempt to ride him,” Jorah said, as he lowered himself beside her in the sand. He was drinking tea made by the _Dothraki_.

She shifted her attention to the slumbering dragon. _Rhaegal_ had his nose tucked under his wing, sound asleep unlike his brother who was rolling on his back in the sand, legs kicking at the night air.

“I don't know how,” she admitted.

“You're afraid that he will throw you off,” Jorah replied. “He will not. You are his mother.”

“Would you come with me?”

Together, they approached _Rhaegal_. His large eye opened, watching calmly. “He is larger than I remember,” Daenerys admitted in a whisper.

“Travelling has made him strong,” he replied. “He'll grow larger still, now that we have reached _Westeros_. Dragons thrive in conditions such as these.”

It was Jorah who stepped forward and knelt in the sand beside _Rhaegal's_ head. The knight reached up, placing his hand on the bridge of bone between his eyes. “There...” he cooed at the creature. “Been a long time, hasn't it?”

 _Rhaegal_ was the most distant of the three. Unlike _Viserion_ who spent most of his hatch-ling days perched on Jorah's shoulder, _Rhaegal_ had been the first to launch himself into the air bolstered by foolish hope. He'd landed awkwardly on his head but Jorah scooped him up and placed him back on the edge of the cage so that he could try again.

“See if he'll let you lay on his back.”

Daenerys approached, tentatively moving to climb his wing. She could hear _Drogon_ shift behind, watching. _Rhaegal_ remained steady, chirping softly as Jorah sang to him. He was an entirely different creature and Daenerys fumbled, searching for her footing. Eventually she found a smooth segment on his back where she could lie, holding onto several of his black spines to stop herself from sliding off. She lay there, rising and falling with each of the dragon's breaths.

“He's warm...” she whispered.

Jorah curled the edge of his lip in a smile. This is where Daenerys belonged – on the back of her dragons. “We should do this every night until you feel that you can fly him.” Then, he left the front of the dragon and wandered around to the wing. He slipped off his boots leaving the leather in the sand and then climbed _Rhaegal's_ wing barefoot. _Rhaegal_ helped, lifting slightly so that Jorah neared his Queen.

“You know, I did not realised...” she murmured, sliding her hand down to Jorah's face. Her fingertips brushed his jaw, edging him closer. “...how much time you spent raising them.”

“We all raised them, _Khaleesi_ ,” he replied. “It was most unconventional if the Valyrian writings are to be believed.”

“Everything about my life is unconventional,” she replied. Before she could prevent it, a tear slid from her eye and fell onto Jorah's arm. “Sorry...”

“Sh...” It was his turn to reach to her, placing his palm against her cheek. “You miss him.”

“I don't know what happened to him – that is the worst of it. Promise...” She insisted. “Promise I'll never wake to find you gone.”

“I'll be with you until the end, Daenerys, wherever that may be.”

It was rare that he used her name. She dipped further still, pressing her forehead against his. Her silver hair flared over them like a veil of ice. His hands shifted, laying on her back. She cried for a while, hidden against him. There was no one out here to see them except the stars.

*~*~*

“What are they doing?” Tyrion leaned over the edge of the trap door that led directly into the heart of the ship. Inside, _Dothraki_ sat beside lamps and piles of dragon glass that the dragon had deposited when it first landed on their boat.

“Fashioning fresh holds for the weapons,” Varys replied. “The Queen's orders. All dragon glass spears and blades must be re-made. It will take them months.”

“There is more than our army can wield.”

“Indeed. The overflow are to be given to the Dornish after King's Landing is taken.”

“Is that it, then?” Tyrion nodded at the glimmer on the edge of the shore. It was a long way off but every now and then a flare of light erupted from the edge of the desert.

Varys nodded. “The heart of Dorne.”

“My brother spoke of it as the most beautiful city created.”

“That honour, I'm afraid, goes to the ruins of _Chroyane_. Even as a pile of rubble it's still the most beautiful thing we've ever accomplished. Still, the Sunspear is not without its charm.”

“You're a hard one to please, Varys.”

“If you mean to suggest that my standards are impeccable then I will take the compliment.”

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS**

###  **THE NORTH**

  


“Magic.”

“What of it?”

Brienne sat opposite Podrick in the snow, nudging their camp fire with a long stick. It caught alight so she lifted it up to the freezing air, watching the flame tremble at its tip for a moment before dying in a bed of pine smoke. “What do you make of it?”

Podrick shrugged. “Don't know.” He replied, shuffling closer to the flames. He was draped in several layers of fur but not even that was enough to stop his limbs vibrating with the cold. They had taken watch over the ruins, perched on a rise near the edge of the forest. From here they could see all the snow flats toward the North and the mountains that banked them. Another pair of watcher sat directly opposite, looking the other way. He could see their fire as a speck in the dark. “I mean, it's just there, ain't it?”

“We've never been much for it where I come from,” she admitted. “My father beat a maester once for teaching me that it was real.”

Podrick reeled at that. “Thought that wasn't allowed – hitting a maester.”

“It's not but lords have done worse. The Boltons killed the Stark's maester when they took Winterfell. I hear he was one of the best in the land. I saw Snow laying flowers where his corpse was last seen. Strange creature – the bastard... Once I found him sitting with his eyes rolled back, twitching.”

“Understandable. He's been dead and come back. That'd mess with your head. Some of the men, they reckon he's a bit mad but the rest are convinced that he's some kind of god.”

“I think it was what he saw while he was between the living and dead that ruined him,” she countered. “Snow won't say what's down there. He'll give grand speeches all day long about the terrible things coming to kill us from the North but not a word about what waits us on the other side.”

“You're thinking about Renly...” Podrick realised quietly. He wasn't sure what to do. Brienne would likely chop his hand off if he raised it to her shoulder in comfort. She'd been built differently to most. “Is it revenge you're after?”

She shook her head. “I've tasted that.” The Red Witch lived but there was nothing that she could do about that. At the moment, that hideous creature was the only thing keeping their fires alive in the night. Without her filthy words they'd all freeze. “I – I want to know where he is...”

It took Podrick several minutes to realise that Brienne wasn't speaking of Renly after all. Of course. One way or another, Brienne was _always_ thinking of him. “On his way to King's Landing,” he finally answered, startling the knight. “I know. _Everyone_ knows,” he added. “Plain as day, you two. I mean...” Podrick nodded at the Valyrian sword beside them. “You're carrying his family heirloom. How many times have you both defied family honour for the sake of the other? Exactly.”

“Magic is suffocating the world, Podrick,” she refused to comment on her feelings, switching the subject. “I think it's always been there, lurking at the edges. The people of Tarth keep excellent records. I've seen them myself, whole buildings resting at the centre of the island, lined with scrolls as though they were seagull nests burrowed into the cliffs. Their tales of winter are measured in the trade logs to the point where all imports ceased. Cold tides took over the kingdom and the world starved.

“For my people, it was an accounting fact, not a fable. My father believed that it was a cycle. When I was small, he briefly flirted with the idea that I might become a scholar rather than a warrior. He showed me the numbers sliding down, following the inevitable pattern. If we've noticed, the citadel has.”

“These people don't need paperwork to tell them that Winter is on its way,” Podrick assured her.

“No but the rest of the realm might.”

“It's not what I imagined in the great songs...”

“The truth is never what we imagine, Podrick.”

 


	57. Dreams and Dust

 

 

###  ** CITADEL – OLD TOWN **

Gilly pressed her body against the strange, black walls of the ancient Hightower labyrinth. They were smooth beneath her touch, congealed like outbursts of rock that used to lay in the ice around her home, thrown there by the fiery giants that live below. She remembered hiding behind boulders of it, whispering prayers to the Children of the wood, begging them to take her into the darkness. Anything to end the anguish of her life beyond _The Wall_.

Her prayers were answered by endless drifts of snow and swaying pines which snapped under the weight. Then, blue-eyed creatures marched down from the white deserts to feast upon their children – at least, that's what the women were told as their wails filled the emptiness. There were some nights in the North Gilly thought herself the last living thing in existence where her breaths were like thunder. Then there were other nights – nights when the air was thick with creatures screaming at the filthy crack of ice and Death made real, given form enough to wield shadows.

Rain smashed into the outer walls of the Hightower, startling Gilly. She was still getting used to the sound which was accompanied by dull roll of thunder. A few moments later, rivers formed, rushing down the steps where she stood. It was laced with ice so she retreated, ducking deeper into the fortress.

Torches lined the walls nearby. She pried one of them free and held the heavy thing aloft with both hands. Sparks danced in the halo of light above. Their embers burned on her skin. Soon she found herself amid the eerie pillars and oddly indented walls where she had first met Old Man Hightower. It looked the same, draped in cobwebs whose spiders lay as desiccated corpses. A faint hint of spice hung on the air joined by stone dust which caught at the back of her throat. The previous hum of tourists had fallen quiet, sinking away with the miserable weather.

Gilly laid her hand on the wall, following it around to the side where a strange room was tucked into an alcove. Like the rest of the ruins, its ceiling hung low – threatening to collapse. The floor was smooth, made of the same oily stone as its walls while at the centre lay a depression with a pool of sorts, collecting rainwater that had made its way through cracks in the tower above. The waters took on a poison from the stone. Perfumed with death, they held a flawless veneer until another drop touched the surface and sent endless ripples cascading then faded into nowhere.

Entranced, Gilly approached, stepping carefully over the uneven ground which held the appearance of candle wax. She held her torch over the water. Beneath lay dozens of identical coins layered like pebbles in a stream. _Braavosi_ coins...

Gilly stumbled away from the edge.

As she turned her flames caught one of the depressions in the wall. Instead of rock the surface was pale with stretched skin. There was a face with eyes closed in death's sleep and long, brown eyelashes matted with fresh cobwebs. It was the face of a young servant boy.

Gilly raised a trembling hand to it. Closer. Her fingertips met the soft flesh. _Warm..._ Kept alive by magic.

She dropped the flaming torch in a shower of sparks. It rolled away toward the entrance of the room giving birth to a horrific vista of dancing shadows. A peeled face on a wall – what were these people of the South? A different brand of demon... North, South – East or West. Men were the same wherever you went. She was a fool to think she'd escaped their horrors.

*~*~*

His ravens clung to the back of the room, shitting and shedding feathers. Great arches of stone had their shutters permanently pulled closed. They rattled fiercely with the rain. Stark shadows moved restlessly along the walls while the fire contained by the pale stone burned ferociously, fed by book after book tossed into into its depths by the Faceless Man wearing Leyton Hightower's withered face.

Standing above the flames, he ran his bone-withered hand along the dusty spine of another book. A priceless slither of history, bound with gut and wolf leather. Its pages were made from the pulp of a _Weirwood._ When it hit the flames they erupted in a violent blue, twisting over the edge of the stone where they caught the edge of the wooden shelf and turned it black.

Satisfied, he retired to the desk where the golden raven perch remained empty with only a single black feather laying like a crescent moon beneath.

Beside a tumbler of water sat Hightower's dragon egg. He shuffled down in his seat to bring his eyes level with the ribbed stone surface, spying it as one might face the eyes of an enemy across the field of battle. A shuffle of cloth. The heavy _clunk_ of another dragon egg, this one emerald instead of black, gifted by a Salt Prince to _The House of Black and White_ in exchange for a worthless crown. Side by side they stole every whisper of firelight. He had brought them here to throw them into the great flame atop the tower _and destroy them_.

Hours later, when the rain calmed and the temperature plummeted with the arrival of dusk, one of the servants knocked on his door.

“An archmaester requests an audience, My Lord,” the servant boy said, bowing low to the crippled lord buried deep in the room. The air was putrid with the carcass of a raven left to decay upon the floor. It had partially turned to bone with its little ribs exposed. Hightower never opened the windows any more, preferring the company of candles to the sun.

It was a while before Hightower replied. “Send him in...”

Marwyn paced across the polished hallway, wandering up and down in endless ventures, driven mad by the thoughts circling around his head. The floor was slippery underfoot, left wet by the rain. A curious seagull had settled on the sill, watching him with one red eye. The other was a feathered void, lost somewhere in the sea.

Eventually the boy returned and Marwyn was left to enter on his own. _He must be senile_ , thought Marwyn, as the stench physically pushed him back toward the door. He steeled himself, moving toward the desk where his old friend sat, surrounded by his thrall of half-used scrolls. His hands were stained with ink and the usual decanter of wine was absent. Long, silver hair had been left to grow wild and now touched the desk on either side.

“Let us open these windows – breathe fresh air in here...” Marwyn started pleasantly, unlatching a few of the dead bolts. Dust and caked salt caught in the breeze as he forced them open. The candles leaned and a momentary dark fell over the room as the air settled. He carefully scooped the dead bird up and threw it out the window into the hungry waves below. Already the room was improved.

“Your boy should be attending to such things,” he continued, finding himself a seat from the far side of the room, “or if he won't – find yourself another. There are plenty seeking work in the city these days, with the wars in the North driving them here. With the capital gone to shit we've more than our share – half are thieves. Reviewing that information, perhaps it is better you stick with your current boy. You have a _wealth_ of precious things.”

Finally he sat, shifting his considerable body.

“Have you come seeking a particular treasure?” Leyton drawled – his normally pleasant air absent. There was no banter – no acknowledgement of the secrets they shared together or even their decades of friendship. Perhaps he truly was unwell. Marwyn had rejoiced when Leyton's knees prevented him from climbing the citadel steps to annoy him with freshly acquired relics.

Marwyn cleared his throat. “P-perhaps... Not _for_ a treasure but _of_ one. _”_ The room felt strange. He glanced at the birds, lined along the far wall beside the bookshelves. A few had built nests out of parchment fragments in desperation. They were prisoners too afraid to take flight even with the windows open. “Our old friend,” their private name for the ice creature in the basement, “I believe his time may be at an end.”

Hightower said nothing. He continued his writing, scraping the quill despite its frayed nib cracking against the surface.

“Technically, he is your property,” Marwyn continued, “so I thought it best to check with you before any drastic steps are taken. That being said, there is new information coming out of the North that alters our situation. I believe it is too dangerous to keep it alive.”

“You are here to seek my permission?” Leyton finally replied.

“Yes – that is why I'm here. It should not be a wasted opportunity either.” More comfortable, Marwyn leaned in, one elbow on the table. “Dragonglass works, so does the steel. I thought you might want to give the Wildfire a go. It is, after all, a speciality of yours.”

There was another heavy silence where Hightower continued writing. The scratching of the quill began to dig into Marwyn's mind. He wasn't sure if it was that or the smoke but something was making him feel quite ill. His attention shifted to an unusual object on the desk.

“Where did you find another?” Marwyn spotted the second dragon egg. It was smaller than his original but no less beautiful. “Oh – it's _stunning_!”

The pair of them had always had a love for magical relics. Leyton had let Marwyn borrow the first dragon egg for many years while he traced its history through fragments of legend – to no real end. He could not believe that Hightower had found another and not bothered to share it with him.

“How long have you had -” He'd been about to pick it up when Hightower rose from his chair in a flurry and slapped Marwyn's hands away sharply.

“Do not touch it,” Hightower snapped, then resumed his writing without a second look.

Marwyn returned to his seat and this time stared quietly at his company. That same, one-eyed gull took up perch at the open window. The bookshelves had cavernous gaps where some of the most precious works once sat. Even the lord himself had been corrupted. His mannerisms were that of another. He was a _shell_. A husk of a man no better than a mummer's dragon writhing down the street amid the noise and ceremony of the foolish.

“You have not written me for some time,” Marwyn started – carefully this time. “I was worried the years had caught up to you, old man.” Then he waited. If there was on thing Leyton could not abide it was being called, 'old man'.

“I saw no cause to write.” Hightower stilled his quill and finally caught the archmaester's eye. “Where are your robes?”

“I never wear the robes, _My Lord._ ”

They rose to their feet together. Marwyn jerked forwards, pushing over the jug of water which startled Hightower before it smashed to the ground sending the ravens to the air in fright. Hightower reached under his desk and drew out a small sword which had been fastened to the underside. With the strength of a young man, he swung it in the direction of the archmaester's head.

Marwyn swore and leaned backwards as the metal cut the air. He could have sworn that he felt a breath of it on his neck.

“Who are you?!” Marwyn demanded.

“No one of consequence...” The man replied, using the chair to vault _onto_ the desk. He reached up, unclipping his purple robe which fell away in a curtain of colour. The candles toppled, dying in the pool of water. A moment later Hightower had jumped from the edge of the desk, coming towards the slower moving, much larger Marwyn, blade first.

Caught by surprise, Marwyn raised his hands to the sword. The tip of it split his palm, driven through the bone. Marwyn shrieked as it was withdrawn in a torrent of blood. It sprayed over his face and down his protruding stomach.

*~*~*

Gilly retreated from Hightower's door when something heavy hit the other side, throwing a hinge. She heard steel and stone meet followed by footsteps and loud banging as furniture was thrown. In fear she had sought Hightower out to tell him about the face on the wall but she'd hung back when she saw the archmaester enter.

She pushed open the door as Marwyn spun, slamming a book into Hightower's face. The impact knocked him back slightly but his sword, stained with fresh blood, had already started another path through the air toward the archmaester. The blade dug into the soft flesh of Marwyn's stomach but only briefly before it was ripped free.

“Gilly!” Marwyn gasped, catching her figure in the shadows.

It was a cry for help. Gilly saw an antique war axe set onto the wall. She lifted it free of the iron clasps. Struggling under the sudden weight, Gilly stumbled to the side, the head of the axe hitting the floor where it chipped the stone. She dragged it forward, held her breath and lifted it over her shoulder.

Hightower's sword was coming back for Marwyn's throat. He was all that Marwyn could see, parting the heavy smoke which had started to fill the room from the burning rug, set alight by a fallen candle. Suddenly he stopped. His cold eyes faltered, widening in shock.

Marwyn dropped to his knees, surrounded by his own blood.

Hightower fell with him – then slumped forward onto the stone floor. Gilly loomed behind, a tiny – pale child. Her hands were empty. The axe blade had sliced through Hightower's spine. She could see the bone – the parted flesh and the severed arteries. To both she was devoid of feeling. Slowly, she stepped around the body and plucked the sword from the sticky puddle of blood mixing with lamp oil and water. Then, Gilly reached down and, with her foot on Hightower's back for leverage, pried the axe free. She held both in Marwyn's direction.

His eyes were on the steel, clenched in such tiny, delicate hands. Gilly was a woman of ice – a creature of violence hidden under the slip of a girl. He wondered how many had fallen beneath her wrath and if that quiet Night's Watchman knew the truth of her.

“Wait – _wait_!” Marwyn begged, lifting his good hand. The other was limp, bleeding profusely. “He's one of _them_.”

“One of _who_?”

The desk was overturned. Both dragon eggs had rolled freely about the room. One lay in the corner, propped against a bookshelf with a terrified raven perched on its tip. The other was coated with lamp oil which now caught alight.

“Them...” Marwyn groaned, lowering his hand to clutch his injured on. He was bleeding from his stomach as well with fresh bruises darkening on his face. “The ones that I warned Tarly about. The Faceless assassins from across the Narrow Sea.”

“I – I _killed a Lord_...” She'd hang for this.

“No. No that man is not Leyton. Listen to me Gilly – is it Gilly?” She nodded. “Leyton Hightower is one of my oldest friends. I'd know the man anywhere. Leyton is certainly dead but not by your hand. Let me show you.”

Marwyn crawled forward, dragging himself through the sodden floor where he rolled the corpse over. Fighting the urge to gag at his 'friend's' vacant eyes, he reached down, feeling around beneath his chin – carefully tracing the line of his neck. There. A faint edge. Like the skin beneath an eggshell, Marwyn scratched at the edge until it peeled away in his hands. It took more force than he had expected but eventually Hightower's whole face peeled away revealing another.

Horrified, Marwyn held up the piece of skin. “Old magic,” he whispered. “Forbidden in all but the cult in _Braavos_. Those fucks are mad. Them and their god.”

“Throw it in the fire...” Gilly whispered.

Marwyn struggled to his feet and threw it into the flames which hissed and smoked.

“H-how many faces are there?” She knelt beside the body – mimicking Marwyn. There was another tear in his flesh – a face waiting.

“Believe me...” Marwyn had torn strips from a curtain and was binding it around his hand. “They have rooms of them. Faces upon faces – like the screaming trees in your frozen forests.”

She swallowed back her tears. They didn't fall solely for Hightower – whose face had been worn like a shawl in winter. It was the horror of it. What were we – faces on a wall? Trickery from the lips of gods? Fuck the gods. “We should burn that too...” she hissed.

Marwyn stared dumbly at the corpse. It would not fit in the fire. “How?”

Gilly swung the axe, cleaving off Hightower's head. Marwyn threw up as Gilly grabbed it by the grey hair, carried it across the floor with blood dripping behind her, then hurled it in the flames where it joined the ashes of books.

When the body was gone, they doused the flames that had taken hold in the room and opened the remaining windows to clear the smoke.

“Reminds me of the North,” Gilly said, as they fought their way through the smoke. “Sit. Let me see – I don't bite.”

“You've done this before,” Marwyn noted, as the Craster girl washed his hand with some clear Dornish drink they'd found stashed in a desk drawer. It burned like buggery but not as much sewing the wound shut. He kept perfectly still, watching her work with detachment. It was not his first time either and he'd had a lot worse.

“Up North, we had to look after ourselves,” she replied, tugging the thread when it got caught in his flesh. “Once I pulled a pine branch out of someone's leg. Now _that_ was a mess. This – nice and clean.” She finished and wrapped it again, neatly. “What about this...” she lifted the silk covering the cut on his stomach.

“Plenty of armour down there,” Marwyn joked, referring to the healthy circling of lard around his girt. “It's saved me more than once.” A few more stitches and Marwyn finished the bottle off. “What have you got over there?” He asked, as Gilly kneeled behind an overturned chair.

She rose, a dragon egg resting in her hands. “I've seen this before,” she whispered. “It's his dragon egg.”

“There's another one,” Marwyn replied, rolling to the side where he used the wall to struggle to his feet. “It'll be here somewhere. Quick.”

Gilly gave Marwyn the black egg and searched the room. She found another in a puddle of water.

“Argh!” She cried.

“Gilly?”

“The egg burned me. It must have been sitting in the flames.” This time she picked it up with rags and placed it in a bag. “We can't leave all these things here...” She added, standing in front of the enormous treasure trove of relics in the office.

“See this-” Marwyn pointed out the gaps in the shelves. “He's destroyed the most important works.”

“Why?”

“Do not waste your time trying to understand those that have no faces. They are no one. They want nothing...” He reached forward, giving the shelf a forceful shove. The wood groaned and slid aside, revealing a secret compartment where he and Leyton hid the valuable works. “Literally – these assassins worship death. They won't be happy until the whole world lays in ashes. Here... Find another bag for these.”

“Where are we going?”

Marwyn, his arms full of priceless relics, cast his eyes up toward the blackened ceiling. “The tower.”

*~*~*

The rain vaporised before it got anywhere near the green ball of raging fire at the peak of the Hightower.

Gilly and Marwyn emerged on the first of three landings, weighed down with an assortment of bags. Each platform was made of stone. The first two were white, forged from the hardest form of granite mined in the _Braavosi_ mountains. Hundreds of years ago it made its way across _The Narrow Sea_ on barges barely able to clear the waves. Several sank, scattering their treasure on the ocean floor – fodder for the gods. The last layer, guarding the flames, was constructed of black stone mined from the ancient roots of the fortress. It was the only substance strong enough to encase the _wildfire_. Everything else buckled, melted or exploded with the intense heat. Re-working it took longer than building the tower. They used Valyrian steel tools to carve it and even today, if you could stand to stare into the flames, you could see silver chains holding the stone blocks together.

“I thought you said these eggs were valuable?” Gilly said, guarding her face from the heat. Even here it felt as though it was burning her skin. “I don't understand.”

Marwyn was hypnotised by the swirling towers of green. “They say it is like standing before the sun.” He knelt, rifling through the bag. He pulled out the green egg. “That faceless creature, he was reading Leyton's notes on dragon eggs. I saw them scattered to the side. After he was done desecrating the books, he was going to throw the dragon eggs into the flames to destroy them.”

“Who would want to destroy a dragon egg when you could sell them for a fortune?”

“Over a grudge... Their people began as slaves of the _Valyrians_. What he didn't know was that Leyton left those notes laying around for a reason.” Marwyn held the egg up. It was so beautiful. “They're nearly impossible to destroy. You could climb the highest mountain in the realm and drop it onto a river of lava-”

“What is, 'lava'?”

“The melted innards of mountains. Hotter than fire. Anyway, the damn thing would float. They're _made_ from fire. The dragons that lay them sleep deep in the ranges where the flames are at their most brutal. Leyton was a smart man. He figured that one day he'd die and someone would find the egg. If their intent was malicious he laid the perfect trap sitting right above his head.”

Gilly looked at the archmaester warily. Sam had warned him about this man. His interests included the darkest forms of magic from corners of the world as dangerous as the North. “What happens when you throw the egg into the Hightower flames?”

Marwyn smiled. “With any luck... _This_.”

He climbed up to the next platform – as far as a human could bear before the flesh blackened and curled away. Then, he threw the egg straight into the pit of flames. It vanished into the heart of the ceaseless fire, rolling into the burning abyss. Marwyn quickly retreated to Gilly, red but mostly unharmed.

“You did not answer my question,” Gilly pressed. “What will happen to the egg?”

“Give it a minute...”

Gilly could feel the hot wind threatening to knock her from the platform. The entire city was visible from here, clawing into the surrounding hills. Dusk was almost finished but she could pick out the houses from the lights burning in their windows. They were so far below that they looked like a nest of stars, woven into the hills. On the other side, the harbour and sea beyond was black except for a small outburst of light belonging to another island.

She tugged on Marwyn's sleeve but he was focused on the flames.

It was only a theory – a thought Leyton had when the two of them were young enough to wile away the hours over wine and dragon tales. _Yes_ , magic hatched dragons eggs but there had to be a simpler way. They were creatures like any other and that meant they reproduced naturally – in the wild – without the help of humans muttering curses over their shells. Marwyn travelled to _Asshai_ while Leyton raided the libraries of the citadel. Between them they reasoned that if they could find enough heat, the egg would hatch.

“Wait...” He tried to shrug the woman off but she was insistent.

“No,” Gilly hissed. “ _Look!_ ”

Marwyn brushed a tear away and stepped closer to the flames. There, emerging from the edge where a chain swung against the stone, in and out of the flame, was the flick of a crimson tail.

###  **SUNSPEAR – THE BROKEN ARM**

“Is that it?” Dany lifted her arm, bracelets rattling against each other with the movement of her horse. In front, the desert wastes, burned red from an ancient cataclysm, parted like a flower with its petals peeled back.

“Ay,” Jorah gave his horse a swift kick, moving up beside her. “Not many see her from the North. Wait until we pass this next range, then you will see...”

It was a day's ride before they made the soft track over a rise of dune that was making its slow progression toward the water. There, standing along the ridge, they looked down toward the great Dornish stronghold of _Sunspear_.

A huge, vaguely spear-like protrusion of sandstone reared out over the ocean. Water lapped on three sides and when the tide drew back, it was surrounded by soggy, impassable sand flats riddled with tiny orange crabs that sidestepped in waves. At its base, the _Shadow City_ lingered, dwarfed by the other.

“This is not as I imagined,” she whispered, dismounting her horse. The Queen sank into the soft, blushing sands. Jorah joined her but the burn of the sand against his ankles was nearly unbearable. _Sunspear_ was a violent clash of cultures, built and re-built, layers upon layers of stone in front of the palace. Like a hive, it was fortified through sheer bulk of stone rather than ingenuity. Then, the final arm of stone reached unsupported toward the sea where the famous processions from the stories were held. In days gone past, dragons landed there, perching above the water. “I thought it would be plated in gold.”

“The stone rather looks of gold, when the light is right,” Jorah assured her. “This is not the East, _Khaleesi_. Golden cities are a thing of dreams and dust.”

 


	58. Pieces of a Fallen Star

###  **SUNSPEAR – THE BROKEN ARM**

_Daenerys closed her eyes on the golden sun. Inside her mind she found the snow. It waited for her, tumbling silently through her waking hours, deepening until at last she returned. The North. This time a forest of ailing pines, girths the size of horses with their bubbled bark dusted in frost. Limbs brushed on limb. A constant whisper of ice above as she ventured deeper into a frozen ravine. A narrow stream cut through the black cliffs either side which shed a second snow of rock. During the Summer, melt water turned it into a rambling torrent, knocking boulders of dragon glass further into the forest. In Winter it froze and the dragon glass became black eyes shining from the silent sea._

_Ahead – the steady chink of an axe. Barefoot, Daenerys picked her way along the river rocks until she came upon the largest pine. At the heart of the forest, the other trees withered in its presence. Its limbs were masts, its needles nothing but lush green sails shivering in the snow. Seated on one of the lower branches was a man wielding an axe. He struck at the trunk. Over and over. Carving out a honey coloured track where the exposed wood bled furiously._

_He was making a face – a howling, bleeding effigy in the pine. In this vision, Dany cried out. 'You mustn't!' she shrieked, banging on the base of the tree. 'You mustn't make the face. Their eyes are everywhere!'_

_When she looked again the man held a bleeding sword. Sap from the pine dripped down the blade. He was young – a full beard that blended into his furs and a thick lather of hair to match but the eyes – those, clear eyes were like the blocks of ice drifting in the bay._

_'Jorah...'_

_Then Daenerys looked down to her body to find herself drenched in viscous sap. It stuck to her clothes – wept into the snow where its amber inflamed to red. A hideous massacre on the ice._

“Beautiful, aren't they?”

The queen was shaken from the reverie by words wandering up behind. She gripped the rail, blinked back a tear and adjusted to the sun which was rising out of the Eastern waters as if it could not bear the day. From the great vault of rock leering over the bay, Daenerys could see the first bumps on the waves where the _Stepstones_ flirted with _The Narrow Sea._ One had a lighthouse perched perilously on its cusp. Its revolving light flashed drunkenly at the shore, waiting to be snuffed.

“An army of ships,” Prince Doran Martell continued, “their sails slack on the mast – waiting for war.”

He referred to her fleet bobbing at the foot of the city, mingling with the Dornish trade ships which were edging out of the harbour, sunk low on their water lines with lemons. “Are you a poet or a prince?” Daenerys asked, as he came to a pause beside her.

Despite a tall, lean and handsome figure Doran leaned heavily on the brass rail. Walking this far was a danger to his health but then so was ruling a nation of knee-bending, oppressed, soulless nobles. “Both,” he replied, letting the wind disturb his loose curls. “I hope one does not preclude the other.”

“My advisers tell me that Dornish men are like this – a war in their heart between virtue and...”

“Lust,” he pulled the word from the air between them. “That is Dorne.” The prince was king among his men. “How else could a monstrosity like this prevail?” Doran turned slightly to gesture at the riddle of stone and dust masquerading as a city. “Love and death. Conquest and endurance. One half-swallowed shore where the molten rock left gaps in the sand.” Indeed there were black stains further along the beach where some old fire had burned and died at the touch of a wave.

“Nymeria's towers rising out of the Dornish sprawl...” Dany added, understanding his meaning. “The world is littered with Rhoynish corpses. There are whole cities left to crumble in the forgotten reaches of Essos. Beauty did them no good. Beauty killed them. That ugly sprawl of dust beneath your prized towers is what keeps your city alive, Prince Doran. Why do you shake your head at me?”

“Because you are like my city – young and old. The last of your house and first of your name.”

His words rattled Daenerys so she returned her attention to the harbour where her fleet knocked together. They were settled having arrived yesterday with fair winds. As promised, the Dornish had attended them with supplies and repairs. Many of her crew were already in the city while Tyrion and Varys held council in the palace. She had not seen them yet, having wandered directly from the sands to the arm of stone reaching over the water. Her dragons wandered along the sand flats, chasing the tide like huge sea-turtles. Even their hides had been turned gold in the rising sun.

“I am a man of peace, Your Grace,” Doran addressed her without cynicism. She believed him. Everything about the prince was refreshingly genuine. He had played the game long enough to view it objectively.

“May I ask why you are gifting a dragon queen your army?” Dany could hear her dragons singing at the water. They were happy here, in the heat and salt. She wished that they could stay. War might be the end of them. Dany couldn't stand to think of what they might look like with their bones sticking out of the sand, washing away with the tide.

“We have never met,” he began, using the sea breeze to build his strength. His body was broken in countless places, flooding him with pain as if he were burning from the inside. “Though I have thought of you often, these long years. You may not realise it yet while you are caught up in all your blood and fire but you, my child, were born for peace. The fire you set will reduce the corruption of the kingdom which has been left to fester – to ashes. Then your tides of blood will wash them away. When we are done, Westeros will be a very different creature.”

Doran held out one of his hands to her.

“We are in agreement, then...” Daenerys said, before making any move toward his hand. “You and the other princes of Dorne – to support my claim to the Iron Throne?”

“ _United_ is a strong word for the Dornish, Your Grace. A glorified empire of desert tribes have never been united in anything save our staunch independence. That is the deal...” He repeated, wanting to hear the promise from her lips rather than those of her two pets presented yesterday. “Dorne will be free and at peace with the realm. Our laws and our princes.”

“You'll not adopt the title of 'king'?” She asked curiously.

“A network of perceived equal princes is stronger than the pinnacle of absolute power. It is very easy to topple from the tip of a spear.”

_A quiet warning for her ears_ , the Queen thought to herself. Jorah had said the same. Wise or foolish men?She could not decide. “I thank you for you council and confirm the offers of my representatives. A free Dornish country in return for a crown.”

They shook on it. His wrists pale like hers – scars from a life left indoors. He was conscious of it, tugging his sleeves down once they were finished. Beneath them, the  _Dothraki_ horses were being gathered into vast stables cut directly into a lump of rock which the city had naturally grown over. Their keening echoed through the bedrock like the ghosts of war. Every aspect of Dorne was stark – abrupt ranges, barriers of sand and an unforgiving sky. The sea caves beneath the city were no different. They gaped at the water like faces on the  _Weirwoods_ , howling into nowhere, watching the world.

“My son is brave to marry you,” Doran added, now bent over the marble rail that ran the length of the stone walkway. “Do you sing?” Doran asked, plaintively. “Your brother, I remember he sang.” There was a fondness to his words, as if Doran were reminiscing a painting.

In that moment Daenerys understood that Quentyn's plan was Doran's... He was the master orchestrator of them all. To this, Deanerys nodded simply at set her sights on the ships, then, when they had their fill of the waves and salt, she offered Prince Doran her arm and they strolled back toward the palace.

“I've not tried it,” she confessed. “My dragons, they sing – I hear them now – birds on the wind. They sing for me, I think.”

“Your knight sings.” His addition startled Daenerys. “I remember when he was last in Dorne, many years ago now. He'd take a spot on the lower walls, watched the Northern waters and whispered strange songs to them with his heart in pieces. He's one of your birds, Your Grace. It's – not pity,” he added, when Daenerys asked. “Except perhaps I pity myself for I've never loved enough to croon at the tides or lost enough to curse the moon and stars for their light. How can I be a true Dornish man if I've no claim to these things?”

“You must love something,” she replied, lowering Doran into his chair. It was a strange contraption set on ornate wheels that his keepers pushed around, flashing gold and ruby flowers whenever it caught the sun.

He stared at the unruly tangle of city – its jagged peaks and crumbling edges. “Dorne,” he replied. “I love Dorne. I think I was born to serve her. I like you, Queen Daenerys and I believe Westeros will be the better for your rule but know this, should you ever come for my city or her people I will have you thrown into the bay with the crabs and creatures of the dust.”

“For my brother and his children, I will _always_ send you back to Dorne to watch her waves and guard her sands.”

Doran, taken by her words, reached up with his frail hand and took hers, clutching it with surprising strength. “You have your brother's eyes. Even his enemies were in love with him. When they raised their swords they always faltered at the shadow he cast in their hearts.”

“Robert Baratheon did not falter.”

“He did.” Doran assured her. “That is why the hammer fell so hard upon Rhaegar's crown.”

There were times when Daenerys dreamed of his rubies scattered through the stream, washing into nowhere.

*~*~*

The palace was split between two Rhoynish towers, each more decayed than the last. Jorah waited for Daenerys in one of the sprawling living areas gifted to them by the prince. It was sparse and circular, decorated in the centre with a tiled pool of water which seemed to be a feature of every room. Instead of placid reliefs the walls were adorned with images of snakes striking at prey, leering up with their spotted hoods erect. In their honour, one of the old Targaryen banners had been strung up across the wall. Its violent shades of red and black where laced with dust. Still, Daenerys found herself reach forward to touch the heavy weave.

“You never said you'd been to Dorne, ser Jorah,” Daenerys said, when she heard his familiar footfalls on the stone. She withdrew from the banner and her memories.

He waited until he was closer before replying. “I have been many places in this world. Dorne always felt like a dream. My mind was clouded with many things while I lived in the streets. I was never quite sure if it happened.”

“Prince Doran remembers you.”

“I doubt that will aid you in this plan,” he replied sceptically. “Even if you can convince Prince Doran to lend me the sword, the Daynes may well refuse. Commands of a prince in this part of the world are more akin to honoured requests. You could not force their hand.”

“You _will_ have that sword. I have seen you hold it.”

“ _Khaleesi_ , I am not sure I wish to give your visions strength. There are things in them you will not share. Prophecy is meaningless. In the end it comes down to what we do or don't do. That's all there is.”

Daenerys broke the mood with a playful smirk and flash of her sharp eyes. “You will  _do_ as you are bid, ser...” To which he could only dip his head obediently. “Have Varys and Tyrion procured the document?”

“Indeed, they used their head start wisely. The Dayne's have their family tree on show in the House of Records. We commissioned a copy which they will bring. Now that you're existence is confirmed, you have a strong claim. This will be them coming now,” he finished, at a knock on the door.

Maesters, if you could call them that, filed in led by Tyrion and Varys. They carried a chest containing the fresh parchment which was quickly extracted and unfurled over the marble floor in a carpet of ink and wax. Its commission and birth were in haste, evident in the smudges where it had been rolled prematurely. They used river stones to hold the edges down until finally the family tree of House Dayne lay before them.

“Gods...” Daenerys whispered. The stretch of history was breathtaking. Seeing it laid thus gave life to mythical figures and there, twisted with the names of Martell and Dayne; _Targaryen..._

“These, Your Grace, are the minders,” Varys introduced three maesters wearing chains of pearl. “They ensure that sacred house is not tampered with.”

Daenerys hoped they took more care of their parchment than themselves. Their faces were covered in brown tattoos and piercings which stretched their skin into strips. Their hair was tied back and plaited into braids that touched their waists while their hands were covered in snake-skin gloves. “And this,” said Daenerys, “is the same as the original?”

“It is,” Varys replied. “Tyrion and I stayed for its creation.”

Which explained why they both looked pale and ill. Too much drink in Varys' case and not enough for Tyrion.

*~*~*

When Princes Doran and Quentyn were summoned they patiently listened to the dragon queen's unusual request.

“A few short hours ago, I thought the gods had smiled upon you,” Doran was the first to speak. Varys and Tyrion shifted uneasily at the levity tainting his tone. It was not a promising sign. “Now I see that you are a true Targaryen, mad as ever and entirely delusional in your undying belief of self importance.”

Daenerys was unperturbed. She'd heard worse rejections. “It is not that I desire the sword as an item of vanity... I do not collect trinkets to amuse myself. I have lived on nothing for too long to find value in such things.”

“Then what does a queen want with a sword? You could not wield it.”

“The sword is not for me.” A long, drawn pause where Varys closed his eyes and Tyrion felt his hands sweat. “It is for the commander of my armies, Ser Mormont.”

Doran's laughter flooded the room. He did not stop for quite some time, struggling with the sheer ludicrously. “A Northern knight? Your Grace, while I will freely admit to your own potential blood claim on the item, this man, honourable though he may be and a fine warrior by all accounts, he is  _not_ the Sword of the Morning.”

“So you _do_ admit the validity of my claim?”

“I – I do...” Doran frowned, feeling as if he'd somehow been trapped. “But there is a living Dayne with a stronger claim.”

“Edric Dayne,” Varys stepped forward carefully. The eyes of the room shifted to him. “A young boy, lost to the North years ago. Irony, Your Grace. The sword gathers dust at Starfall. The queen would of course return to the sword to its glass prison upon her death or at the conclusion of its use.”

Doran sat in consideration with the only sound that of the parchment rustling in the wind, trying to break free of its stone weights. “The man who wields Dawn  _must_ be the greatest warrior in the land. Blood or no blood, even the Dayne's must prove themselves worthy before taking up the sword. Very few succeed. After the death of Arthur, the next best swordsmen was Ivos Yronwood. Here is my proposal to you, Queen Daenerys. If a warrior of your choice can better Ivos Yronwood in the old dragon pit, you may  _borrow_ Dawn with the strict condition that it will be returned upon  _the death of your victor_ . The title is forbidden. The contest ends with death alone. These are my conditions.”

“Agreed,” Daenerys said, before Doran had finished his last breath or Varys could protest.

*~*~*

“Ivos Yronwood is an _exceptional_ swordsman, Daenerys...” Jorah cautioned, as the four of them sat in conference. “I've seen him in combat – exhibition matches in Dorne against Arthur. With a sword in each hand they could flatten armies.”

“Even _if_ you survive,” Varys interrupted dryly, implying the truly vast chasm of doubt. “Winning will be problematic.”

“Not for me...”

“For all of us. Yronwood is the second most powerful house in Dorne and the original rulers. They call themselves the 'Bloodroyals' because they ruled Dorne for more than a thousand years before Nymeria and her ships thrust the Martells onto the throne. They've been at each other's throats ever since. Politely.”

“So at worst, Doran is using us to remove one of his rivals?” Tyrion asked.

“Even conceding to the fight might cause us issues. Yronwoods aren't the Queen's biggest supporters. They were on the wrong side of the Blackfyre rebellions and they guard the passages to Westeros. If we kill off their greatest warrior they'll close those passages on our heads and slaughter our armies before we reach Westeros.”

“This is all assuming I _live_ ,” Jorah clarified because he really felt that point needed attention. “Which is very unlikely.”

Daenerys slid off her chair and strolled across the room to the squabbling men. Her hand brushed over Varys' chest, pushing him away gently so that she could hold the centre ground between them. “There were no rules placed upon the weapons we could use...?”

“No, Your Grace,” Varys replied.

“And you still have that vile sword from the mountains near Asshai?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Jorah replied.

_Besides_ , thought Daenerys to herself.  _It is not his life I risk but mine._ Quaithe's blood magic would protect him.

*~*~*

Jorah had his doubts. Ivos was younger than him, a few inches taller –  _a few inches leaner_ and fresh from fighting in the  _Red Mountains_ . Of course, he would do whatever it was that she commanded but this felt like a potential disaster. She was risking Dornish civil war for the sake of a sword. She said she'd seen him holding it but there had to be more than that to tempt her into this nightmare.

He stepped into the sun. The arena of the dragon pit was nearly worn to rock. What little sand remaining had been washed to the edges where it clawed up the granite barriers keeping the crowd safe. The ruined structure brimmed with baying crowds. Half the city hung off its stone stairs, passing coin and carrying out business. It was all a game to them. A spectacle. To Jorah, it was probably the last half hour breathing the air for surely he'd be ash and dust before the day was out.

On that thought, he scanned the stadium in search of the royal box. He found it, perched above the sea of faces with golden curtains pulled back and tied to stone columns with red ribbons. The Martell and Yronwood sat side by side while his Queen and her advisers took the other end. He nodded at his Queen and she returned the gesture. She was so calm that Jorah almost tricked himself into believing he might live.

Ivos appeared from the opposing side of the arena. He was older than Jorah remembered – all the better for Ivos. He was broader with an unbreakable armour of muscle in every place the sun touched. The cheers became deafening as he began spinning his pair of swords for their entertainment. The blades danced in the harsh light, floating over his hands as though they were made of magic and feather. He could even hear their sharp edges cut through the hot wind that had found its way into the city.

Instead of parading himself about like some kind of theatre actor, Jorah stalked across the dirt. He finished in the shadow of the royal box where he extracted  _Snowflake_ , his foreign, frozen sword and knelt down on one knee to his queen.

In  _High Valyrian_ he announced,  _“I fight and die for your honour, oh glorious Queen.”_

It was the second time Tyrion had heard those words from the knight, uttered inside a fighting pit. This time, the Queen's countenance was quite different. Her steely face, which she nodded gently again, did nothing to hide the tremble in her hand.

“Have some faith in your visions,” Tyrion whispered, coming to stand beside her as Jorah began the customary circuit of the arena to sate the crowds. “Mormont does not die in a Dornish dragon pit. His bones belong in the North.”

“Even the greatest dreamers know that their visions are whispers,” she replied, taking her seat. “If he dies...”

“He won't die,” Tyrion, now level with her, he dared to stand in front of her. “He's too stubborn to die.”

She'd be easier if Missandei were here but lately her time was devoted to the Stark girl. Daenerys assumed she was using Arya to hide from her grief. She and Grey Worm were closer than friends, impossible as the world saw them, it did not alter their love.

“Do you mind if I?” Tyrion gestured at the seat beside her. He took it and together they watched the knights circling each other. “See – there, along the walls. Scorch marks from the ancient times when dragons were kept here.”

“You really do have a fondness for dragons,” she observed.

“They are not so fond of me but I am fond of them,” Tyrion admitted. “I'm in this for the dragons.”

Finally, Daenerys managed a smile on his account. It was dampened by Varys who had transformed into a moveable water feature. He refused to change his attire and so sweated his way from one building to the next. This venture of the Queen's had him at wit's end. The last thing they needed was the commander of her armies fighting his better in a dragon pit with the potential to destroy the peace in their only major stable ally. Tyrion offered him a wooden fan he'd bought off a street vendor. He accepted, snapped it open and flapped it around irritably.

“I'm starting to think we should have stolen the sword instead. Odds are no one would have noticed it missing until after the war was done.” Varys grimaced further when he saw the slither of ice that Mormont had chosen in place of a perfectly good sword.

“Too late for cold feet,” Tyrion pointed out, as the gong went off.

Jorah and Ivos assembled in the centre. First, they bowed to each other and said the Dornish words. Then they stepped backwards three times in honour of the gods and finally lifted their swords.

Ivos had a pair – one for each hand. They spun again, one then the other, in sync with the cautious steps they took around each other. Jorah's single ice sword with its sad lashing of leather for a handle threatened to melt in the rising heat. He was waiting. Baiting Ivos. Letting the Dornishman draw first blood.

It wasn't long before Ivos took a chance, rearing up to Jorah. One sword went up, the other down, hunting out a follow through. Jorah lifted his sword to shoulder height to block the first strike. As soon as their blades touched Ivos' shattered into a storm of silver dust, raining down at their feet.

The crowd gasped at the sudden destruction.

Ivos' second sword, still in motion, clipped Jorah's arm beneath the elbow with a scratch he barely noticed. Jorah swung  _Snowflake_ back around and caught the second blade. It shattered as quickly as the first leaving Ivos unarmed with a knight bearing down on him. He raised his hands – in hope or fear. Jorah did not hesitate, thrusting the ice-blade directly through his neck, severing everything of note.

Ivos tipped backwards and collapsed as a bleeding wreck on the dirt.

Silence.

Utter shock.

Barely two minutes had passed and the old knight stood victor over a corpse, bowing again to his dragon queen.

Tyrion's eyes should have been on the pit but they had been drawn to Daenerys' arm. A thin tear of flesh was slowly dripping blood onto the ground. She'd winced, pretending to ignore it but it was as real as her blood.

###  **CITADEL – OLD TOWN**

“Gilly! By all the _gods –_ what – are you – archmaester!” Sam was startled a second time as archmaester Marwyn followed Gilly into their tiny room and smashed the door closed, pulling across its rusted chains for all the good they'd do. Their stolen robes barely covered the blood and ash drenching their bodies along with lashings of salted rain.

Sam set little Sammy back into his crib as the rest of the locks were pulled across. Gilly took him by both hands.

“Sam!” she said. “You _have_ to see!”

Marwyn set all the bags down on the stone except for a rug sack that, upon closer inspection, contained something that was moving. _Gods, don't let it be snakes_ , Sam thought.  _Anything but snakes._ He found himself pulled down to the ground where they all sat and then, very carefully, Marwyn untied the ropes around the neck of the back and peeled it away from the tiny creature within.

As a snout appeared, Sam felt panic and awe rise in the back of his throat. “That's a – that's a...” he struggled to speak.

“A _dragon_ ,” Marwyn helped.

 


	59. Kings of the Torrentine

 

###  **SUNSPEAR – THE BROKEN ARM**

Ivos Yronwood's corpse lay at Jorah's feet, twitching as noble blood ran through the dust in dark rivers, seeking out the iron grids set into the pit where it divided into three crimson fingers and dripped into the depths of the ancient city. Beneath, black stone passages carried it to the sea where the mouths of the Deep Ones lay open in feast. _They used to feed dragons here,_ Jorah thought, casting his gaze around the pit _._ White claw marks mingled with long veneers of soot mostly on the lower wall. Dornish cities, like their arena, had nothing for a dragon to burn.

In the void left by the crowd's silence, sea-wind howled about the stands, picking up strips of shade cloth, flapping them sharply against their wooden holds. Two thousand pairs of eyes shifted to the royal box. Lord Anders Yronwood, Bloodroyal and Warden of the Stone Way, stood abruptly then turned on Prince Doran Martell. Soldiers steadied their hands near weapons as their masters clashed with words sharp as steel.

“What sorcery is this?” He spat at Doran, fury boiling his blood. He had been a knight himself and was still dangerous with a sword. “What blade can shatter Dorne's finest steel?”

“Ice,” replied Doran, in his usual calm that incited pits of fire in Yronwood's stomach. “The Queen's knight is a man from the far North of Westeros, in sight of The Wall. There is a great deal of ice there, or so I hear. More so these coming months for there is Winter on the wind.”

“The dragon bitch is no queen of mine and Northern men fight with steel like the rest of us.” Lord Yronwood took another look at his dying kin who had finally stopped moving. A shadow passed over the knight as he knelt in the dust while the honours were read. Steadily, hushed murmurs circled the stands. “I refuse to honour your ridiculous pledge,” he added. “Dawn belongs to the Kings of the Torrentine. You must think us fools to hand it over so easily to strangers. Unlike some, we value our history and her sacred oaths. We were here ten thousand years before you and we'll be here in when you fade back into the Narrow Sea and the serpents of the waves.”

Doran forced himself to stand at the insult, facing Lord Yronwood – who found the display a demonstration of his weakness rather than strength. “The pledge was made on your _honour._ ”

“Fuck – my honour,” Yronwood stammered. “You were the fool to believe it. Years we stood together in crumbling rooms and swore on honour 'til our lungs ran dry but in the end the only result was your politics and my subjugation. I have no interest in playing the pawn in your games with that pile of swords some men call a throne.”

Tyrion took Daenerys' hand, canted onto his toes and whispered. “Come, my Queen, we should leave...”

She would not, instead walling Doran's other side. A silver vision, she wedged him in. “The pact – do _you_ honour it?”

Doran nodded.

Outraged, Yronwood left the box with his entourage.

“For all the good it will do.” Doran finished, when the last of Yronwood's men had left. “My forces do not hold the land beneath the mountains on anything but Yronwood's grace. If you want the sword, you will have to reach it before he can get word to his men. They must go by horse but you, my dear, have a pair of wings.”

*~*~*

Jorah met the others in a stone holding cell beneath the pit whose iron bars had eroded back into the rock as orange stains. Like withered parchment, the walls whispered violence. Gathered nervously, they listened to the distant verse of clashing metal _._

“That was a _mistake_...” Varys insisted, strutting wall to wall. There wasn't enough room for his irate pacing.

“Winning or fighting?” Jorah cocked his eyebrow. His armour barely had time to warm in the sun before the fight ended.

“Both!” Varys growled. “All this for a sword... Yronwood and his men will close the passage North to King's Landing leaving us royally – and I apologise for the unusually callous tone – _fucked_.” Sweat waterfalled from his head. “Why is it so hot?!” He demanded of the walls.

“I believe we are merely a catalyst for their contest. Yronwood will come for Prince Doran first.” Tyrion offered. “Perhaps even kill him. Their conflict has festered long before us. My father used to host wagers on their collapse when he was Hand of the King. I say we seize advantage of this tenuous peace, take our army and leave for Westeros while we still can.”

“Too late for that,” Varys said. “We need the Martells. If we abandon Doran and the old blood houses take command we'll lose Dorne as an ally. That we cannot afford. No one holds the Seven Kingdoms without the support of Dorne. The Queen has set our path – we will have to defend the Sunspear and Doran Martell from his enemies. Pray to whatever gods you prefer that our losses are small.”

“At least we have two dragons...”

“Untrained dragons,” Varys pointed out. “They are destructive I grant you but just as likely to level the city around us.”

“Consider it practice,” Tyrion replied, “before she lets them loose on King's Landing. Our old home is fragile compared to this hunk of rock. The Sunspear is made for siege war. It has never fallen. Defeating the Martells in their own home is near impossible.”

Jorah laid _Snowflake_ against the wall while he started to peal away his armour, wrestling with its clips that held his shoulder plates.

“No – stay as you are,” the Queen announced as she entered, lacing up her gloves. “We'll leave at once to claim the sword.”

“Your Grace,” Varys protested, lifting his hands to reason with her. “We think it safest to stay here and defend the city.”

“I agree. _You_ will stay here and assist Doran. Jorah and I will seek the sword alone.” Jorah's eyebrows soared in an, _'are we?'_ gesture. “If we delay, it'll be stolen away and hidden in the mountains where we'll never see it again. Ser Jorah...” She waited while he pried himself from the wall. “We'll take Drogon.”

*~*~*

Drogon was the best trained of the dragons and the most likely to fly in the correct direction. Even so, _Rhaegal_ called mournfully while the _Dothraki_ helped affix the hand made harness to his brother, binding the straps around _Drogon's_ ever expanding girth. Daenerys stood in front of the creature, gently running her hand over his snout. Every now and then he chirped while steam filtered from his nostrils. He was so beautifully warm, basking on the beach where he liked to lay with his belly in the cool tides.

“You're turn will come soon,” she turned, murmuring to the impatient _Rhaegal,_ who had craned in to sniff the harness on his brother's back.

“Ravens fly faster than dragons,” Jorah warned the Queen, as he strode over the sand. Salt crashed against his boots while she was barefoot. She looked as she had on her wedding feast, the young princess beside her mount, silver hair caught in the wind and a pair of Targaryen eyes piercing through him like a blade. He'd been out of his depth then. Nothing had changed. Tied around her naked arm was a bloodied binding – probably another scratch from _Drogon's_ spines. He'd noticed more of them of late.

With the saddle in place, the _Dothraki_ backed away allowing _Drogon_ to stretch his wings. He dipped them in the waves, sending showers of water into the air as he flapped them over and over, bringing life to the black leather. When he was settled, he tilted to the side, dipping down so that Daenerys and Jorah could scramble onto his back using the protrusions of bone to pull themselves up. Even on the ground, they were high up. Beneath, the _Dothraki_ chanted war songs while their horses reared backwards in alarm.

 _Drogon_ was so engorged that it took the dragon a short run across the beach before his momentum was sufficient to left him from the ground. They circled out over the waves first, using the warm currents of air which navigated between _Dorne_ and _The Stepstones_ to climb until the _Sunspear_ was a speck of rock caught at the front of the dunes. Then _Drogon_ turned into the wind and headed South.

“Varys thought I was dead for sure,” Jorah said, as the Queen laid back against him and their arms entangled. His full leather and steel armour was uncomfortable but she had not let him take it off.

“It is not the worst fighting pit I have set you in.”

He laughed in reply, nodding. “Your Grace speaks truly and grateful as I am to be breathing the victory feels – empty.”

“Because of the sword...”

“Magic won, not skill. In a fair fight Ivos would have bettered me.”

“Ser, you do not know that.” In Daenerys' mind, Jorah _was_ the greatest warrior alive. He'd been her sword for so many years. When he was by her side she was safe. All the terrible things in her life had happened when he'd been sent away. “It is of no consequence,” she continued. “War is not fair. If it takes magic to win then I shall use it. All that matters is that we stay alive. History will not care how.”

*~*~*

“Look on the bright side...” Tyrion started.

“There's always a 'bright side' with you and it's exhausting,” Varys complained. The pair of them watched _Drogon's_ departure from the tip of the _Sunspear_ – standing on the giant wedge of rock. “Go on then,” he continued, “cheer me up or at least attempt to.”

“We still have a dragon...”

A dragon which was, at present, hunting a pod of dolphins in the shallow sea. Every now and then _Rhaegal_ emerged from the waves, tossing the poor, dying things before they ended in a gnash of jaws.

“A dragon we cannot control,” Varys pointed out. “I'm curious, if war breaks out shortly – which it almost certainly will – how do you intend on commanding him to strike down our enemies?”

“Dragons are like wolves,” Tyrion shrugged, wishing he were taller so that he could see over the marble rail. He was sure the view was stunning but all he could see was the sky and the occasional shadow of a dragon wing. “When we need them, they'll come to our aid and protect us. They're drawn to blood.”

“Dragons are nothing like wolves.”

###  **STARFALL – DORNE**

###  **283 AC**

After days following the _Torrentine_ river through the meandering _Red Mountains_ , Jeor Mormont finally caught his first glimpse of _Starfall_ glittering in the centre of the river where the waters widened and mixed with the sea. He'd left Dacey's babe with one of the wealthy mountain forts where he'd be safe from the wars in _Westeros_. The boy, small for his age but good natured, clutched the hems of woman's skirt as Jeor rode back down the valley. He couldn't shake those sad eyes from his mind. It was for the best. What hope did that poor creature have in the North? A _Wildling_ bastard was as good as dead. Here, he was just another child in need of a home. Besides, Bears were strong.

Jeor steeled himself and gave his horse a tap in the ribs with his boots. It was an eerie place. The _Red Mountains_ were made of conquered sand dunes sprinkled with glistening milkglass and wild creations of crimson glass that traders dug out and sold to lords. The Baratheons in particular had a staggering piece in their reception at _Storms End_ , seven foot high with twisted arms like the roots of a tree – or antlers of their beloved sigil. Pines and palms had been stitched together over the landscape where layers of ash and few water streams brought enough life to survive on. Even the animals had taken on a reddish hue in their fine fur.

From his elevated position, Jeor could see the famous bowl shape of _Starfall_. It had a feel of magic about it, prickling the hair on his back like walking along _The Wall_. Everyone had heard the stories of a star falling from the sky, dying in the dunes behind the island where the city now stood. The slaughter of a maiden. Bones of the moon. Isle of fire. It had many names. As Jeor looked around he knew the stories were true. He's seen the same bowls of rock in the ice beyond _The Wall_ where fragments of milkglass dusted the calamity. Whatever happened here it had been repeated throughout the world before men had songs.

Jeor kept his horse quiet. The Dornishmen were in anguish over the brutal loss of their princess and her children. The North had declared for the new Baratheon king and any Southern man of honour was in his rights to lift a sword to a Northman. There was no choice. Eddard Stark had come this way after the slaughter at _The Tower of Joy_. The foolish man, bound in honour, had it in his mind to return the Dornish great sword.

Some might say that Jeor was equally foolish but he would not allow his son to lose his head over a woman. The selfish, vapid creature had twisted Jorah's heart and pulled him into desperation. The Starks owed the Mormonts. Surely he could stretch Eddard's honour to forgiveness – death to exile...

He could see the _Palestone Sword_ – the oldest and finest of the towers striking out from _Starfall_. They cast shadows over the mix of sea and river below, poised at the place where the two bodies of water met and churned. The city glistened in the sun, made from rock shattered with pieces of glass.

When Jeor reached the edge of the _Torrentine River_ he stabled his horse at a tavern and paid the ferryman for passage to the island city. The sun was at its highest as the boat pulled away from the shore and cut through the turn-tide. It was only now, when the waters cancelled each other and briefly became mirrors for the sun, that you could cross to the city without being ripped away by the current. Dozens of other craft did the same, racing toward the stone walls and harbour at the back of the city. Halfway across they passed a second fleet heading to the mainland. Jeor searched their faces for the Stark.

It was not until they were lashed to the pier inside _Starfall_ that Jeor caught sight of the lord. Eddard was a large man, broad even under his grey cloak. Dornishmen were slender and tanned, brightly dressed as they filled the city. Not wishing to draw any undue attention, Jeor quietly followed Eddard out of the markets to the rock-way that clung to the water, leading to the historic towers where the sword was kept between owners. Ashara Dayne was rumoured to have locked herself in one of them, deep in prayer for her brother. Word had reached her of Prince Rhaegar's death but not her brother's... Those words would come with the sword.

“Wait!” Jeor finally shouted, when they were alone at the base of the tower with nothing but the sea wind and crash of waves.

Eddard stopped, pushing back the hood of his cloak. The young lord turned to the more senior Mormont with something that could be mistaken for guilt. He was a beaten man, desperately sad as he dipped his head. Another word might pull him down completely.

“You should not be here,” Eddard warned. “You and I are at war with these people.”

“One part of the kingdom is always at war with another,” Jeor assured him. He was in so deep there was no further harm. Hiding Targaryens put him firmly on both sides of the conflict. Fucked from all angles. “You risk too much bringing that relic here,” he added, nodding at the sword.

“I killed the man,” Eddard replied, though it was a half-lie. “Honour demands I return the sword.”

“Honour doesn't bring you here, young wolf...” Jeor saw straight through the beaten man. He was fraught with pitiable grief. “Love demands it and if it weren't for guilt you'd never risk your life so casually.” For who in the North did not love Ashara Dayne? The silver-haired, purple-eyed vision who'd danced first with the elder Stark and then the brother. Jeor's thoughts were interrupted as Eddard spun to face him. Hidden under the Stark's cloak in his other arm was a new born child.

Jeor's first thought was that the child was Eddard's but it was impossible. He'd tracked him directly from _The Tower of Joy_ where Lyanna's corpse was barely cold. Lyanna's child. That could only make it Rhaegar's too. The bastard crown prince in his uncle's arms.

“Ned – you _idiot_...” Jeor's tone changed, as he climbed the steps toward the young man. A child it was, raven haired with pits for eyes – more wolf than dragon.

“She begged me, Mormont. Begged me to take him. What else could I do?” Eddard looked down to the child, who seemed happy enough swaddled in the wool cloak, watching the world.

“You cannot keep him – if I can work it out, others will – quickly enough. Robert – Robert will know the moment he lays eyes on it. That thing is a Stark born.”

“I'll say he's mine. A bastard of war.”

“You – with more honour than sense – fathering a child to some tavern wench?”

“Exactly.” Ironically, it was Robert who was most likely to believe the lie. His lust for whoring led him to the falsity that all men were bastards when a sword fell in their hand. “Why have you followed me? It's not for the sword.”

“My son...” replied Jeor. “I come for my son's life.”

“Is he not guilty of the crimes?”

“He is guilty,” Jeor conceded. “But there is good left in him. Send Jorah to The Wall, my Lord, or banish him from the North. Anything but do not take his head.”

This time it was pity that flickered over Ned's face. He had other children of his own, tiny creatures in the halls of _Winterfell_. “You love your son and I understand why you came but you know our laws. Jorah must die and I will hold the sword. I wish it were not so.” He picked up something uneasy in the Bear's eyes. “Would you kill me then, to save your son?” With a babe in one arm he could not defend himself.

Jeor stared at his sworn Lord for a long time before replying honestly, “I'm not sure...”

Locked by impasse, Jeor climbed the steps of the tower to stand beside Ned. He eyed the slabs of wood forming its door. Faint etchings created a mirror to the night sky in the surface.

“Would you?” Ned whispered, passing the child to Jeor.

Targaryens had a fondness for Bears and immediately it curled into the soft cloaks. Jeor pulled the fabric up over the child to keep it warm while Ned prised open the door. Together, they climbed the spiralling steps, glimpsing the sea and city through the occasional slits in the stone. When they were almost at the top, the mountains aligned forming a great 'V' through which _Old Town_ sprawled in the distance.

Thick drifts of scented smoke sank down the steps followed by murmured words. They found Ashara Dayne by a large window with the fierce wind at her face. Her slender figure gave way to the swollen curve of a sleeping child.

Eddard Stark was struck motionless by the sight. She lingered there, silver like the moon. The cracks in Ned's honour had haunting violet eyes and belonged to something older than the world.

Ashara watched as Ned unwrapped the milkglass sword and laid it inside its glass case. Tears cut rivers on her cheeks, heavy and wet where she felt the whole sea must live inside her.

“How?” Was all she asked, scraping her nails against the stone.

“Ash...” Ned replied, his voice that of a lover. “Come away from the window.”

The child in Jeor's arms shifted, catching her attention. Half mad, she flew at Ned in a jealous rage. He caught her flailing arms and weathered her vicious words until finally, she collapsed against his chest in sobs. Ned kissed her silver hair. Then her cheek – finally her lips. Jeor looked away, taking the child to another of the windows while the pair whispered endearments to each other.

“Who killed him, Ned? Who...” Ashara wept, pressing into his chest. “Ned?” she repeated, stepping back from his arms when he did not reply. Her eyes shifted between Dawn and the Stark, moving like the sand dunes. Restless. Creeping to the truth. “Ned...”

“I did,” he admitted, their fingertips the last to touch. Her tears ran afresh as he tried to explain. “My sister-”

Now she was shaking her head. Her tears hit the floor like rain on the desert. “Arthur was _protecting_ her from the likes of _you_. You people from the North, you know nothing of _love_. Honour perhaps but that is to your famous swords and ancient lords. To the gods of the screaming trees. Rhaegar knew love. In all the hell and blood he cared nothing for the Iron Throne. Where is your sister now?”

Ned's eyes shared her tears except they hung in his lashes, refusing to fall like snow collecting in pines. “Dead.”

“By your hand?” Ashara was at the window sill.

“No – _of course not_.”

The child in Jeor's arms started to fuss and cry. Ashara noticed with horror that it was a Stark. “And the child?”

He ached to tell her the truth but he'd promised. More than that, he'd _pledged_ on all his life. He'd tell the lie a thousand times but this is where it cut the sharpest. “The child is mine. His mother is no one.”

In her fragile, desperate state, Ashara believed him. She clutched her belly where their child grew and climbed onto the low barrier of rock.

###  **THE RED MOUNTAINS OUTSIDE STARFALL – THE BROKEN ARM**

Jorah felt the shift in _Drogon's_ flight. The dragon was tiring, drifting as he passed by the first of the _Red Mountains_. It was difficult to tell where the dunes became ranges – the trees crept on them every so quietly, starting as carpets of needleweed.

“He is landing, _Khaleesi_ ,” Jorah said, taking hold of the leather straps.

Soon they were in amongst the red dirt. Daenerys, now dressed in her travelling clothes, sank almost to her knees in the soft ground. Jorah stooped to pull her out, setting her on the firmer ground where milkglass bound the dust into rock.

“We can't afford to delay here,” she said, lifting her clothes to allow the sand to slide away. “Yronwood's ravens won't be resting and neither will his men.”

“And a hungry dragon is not a creature you want to ride.”

*~*~*

_Drogon_ hunted the sand foxes until he found an unattended heard of goats picking through the weed. He returned to the pair of figures wandering on the sand. Sidling up behind them,  _Drogon_ nudged Jorah in the back with his snout. It was gentle enough not to toss the knight onto the ground. Daenerys laughed, grinning at the cheek of her dragon.

Jorah whistled in reply and  _Drogon_ obeyed, settling himself into the dune so that they could climb aboard.

“When did you teach him that?” She asked, as they took to the air again.

“I didn't,” Jorah replied. “I whistle at my horse – _Drogon_ learned the rest on his own.”

“Have dragons always been like this...”

“You mean, did they always have souls?” Jorah asked. He thought back through the lessons of his maesters and the things he'd heard from _Asshai_. “I think there are wild dragons – creatures born of the mountains who have never known a human hand. Those are smart like the bear or the wolf. Then there are dragons raised in Valyria with something else in their blood that binds them to your kind. Who knows what happened in the golden era of Valyria. Their magic ran so deep into the earth that the world cracked apart.”

“Aren't you worried that it might happen again?”

Jorah shook his head. “Magic like that is surely lost.”

_He is wrong_ , thought Daenerys.  _Magic like that was stirring in the ice._

“And there it is,” Jorah lifted his arm, pointing at the gap between the mountains. The sea was a blue plate to their left with a single sapphire finger reaching into the land. “The Torrentine River and there, at the tip, Starfall.”

“Odd place to build a city,” she remarked. “In the middle of a river is no use for trade.”

“It was built so long ago the reason is forgot. The ruins of the city – on which the new one is built – were found by the current inhabitants. Interestingly, the river cuts around the city. That might have come later as the seasons changed. Actually, the pair of towers are similar to the outskirts of Old Town.”

“I thought this was the ancestral home of House Dayne?”

“Oh it is but the Daynes are not Dornish. They're a dying house who claim their history dates back into the time of gold and shadow. That might very well be true. My maester used to say that Westeros had a history lost beneath the popular legend of the First Men. There are dragon bones and crumbled ruins all over the continent which our written history can't explain. One thing is for certain, these things were not left by the Children of the Forest. The sword we seek to take is worth more to them than the empire itself. It's their tangible link to the forgotten – proof that something greater once existed.”

“Like the pyramid at Old Ghis.”

“If I help you take this sword, promise me _Khaleesi_ , we will set it back to rest in Starfall.”

“I promise...” Daenerys reached up, cupping his weathered face in her pale hand. “Do not worry. I never swear what I cannot keep.”

“She looked like you,” he finally whispered, placing his hand over hers. “Ashara Dayne. Barristan Selmy always said. She was the woman that tore his heart and left it matted in his chest. He spoke of her often when the wine and smoke dragged into the night. The Stark brothers followed suit and half the noble lords. Her brother, Arthur Dayne, was the last  _ Sword of the Morning _ . I saw him fight and there has never been a better to him. When he died, she threw herself from that tower,” Jorah pointed out the pillar of rock, “and was lost to the waves beneath. No one ever found her bones or laid them to rest. She is with the Drowned God now.”

When Dany looked at the sea this time she found sadness in the crash of waves. Perhaps they were trying to tear down the towers and drag them below the waves. “Love is a curse,” she whispered.

“Love is why we fight.” He stopped himself there, realising he'd said too much. Honour was a lie.

_ Love is the death of kings,  _ Illyrio had cautioned her. Daenerys remembered the trader's words while her own brother had no need of them for his heart was incapable of love for any other than himself. “Ser Arthur Dayne died at the Tower of Joy. My brother sent him there to guard his Stark prisoner.” Another pause between them. “You don't believe those stories any more than I do.”

“No one who saw Lyanna Stark with your brother at the tourney of Harrenhal believed Robert's lies. I think Robert told them to himself for the sake of his vanity. The Stark girl ran off with Rhaegar and Robert's jealousy started the war that changed your life. I'm not sure the mess done to the Houses of Westeros can ever be untangled. All I know is that the sword we seek has always protected your kind. I'd be honoured to hold it, though I am wholly unworthy. Will you ever share your dreams,  _ Khaleesi _ ?”

“I daren't tempt the gods.”

While they flew through the  _ Red Mountains _ , she wondered at the ancient dragons that made their graves in Westeros.  _ Valyrians _ learned their dragon taming from somewhere though it was never spoken of among the priests. Who were the first dragon lords and did they come here before time was time? She closed her eyes and remembered the withered, melted structures in  _ Asshai _ and the mountains behind, full of fire with clutches of eggs in the ash.

###  **STARFALL – DORNE**

###  **283 AC**

Jeor sat on the rocks at the base of the island beneath the tower while Ned searched in the tide line. He clawed feverishly over the rocks – sank into the warm sea and let each successive roll of water drag him deeper until Jeor feared he'd be taken.

“She's _gone,_ Ned...” He called out.

Ned lay back against a large piece of fallen stone, waist deep in the foaming broth. Ashara's body had slipped away leaving him with nothing but the silence where she had stood in the window. He played it over in his mind and felt his chest tighten.

“Think of the boy,” Jeor added, indicating Stark's nephew. “Without you, what hope has he? Come out of the water.”

Together, they rode North. For many days they barely spoke. Jeor found a wet nurse who agreed to come with them on the promise of a home in _Winterfell_. She nursed the child, who Ned had taken to calling, 'Jon'.

“Exile, then...” Ned said, from the blue one morning. The dirt was starting to frost beneath their horses' hooves.

Jeor pulled up beside the Lord of Winterfell, checking that he had not misheard. “Exile, for my boy?”

“I cannot make it official but you have my word, I'll look the other way while he travels to the port and I'll delay the execution. Will a month be enough?” Jeor nodded in reply. “Tell him to take his woman and head to Braavos where there is plenty of work”

Jeor understood that the trade was for his silence.

###  **STARFALL – DORNE**

“In the end, they all loved Rhaegar,” continued Jorah, as the afternoon sun shifted the colours of the world. “Elia Martell, Lyanna Stark, Jon Connington, Cersei Lannister...”

“Viserys said the war was my fault. If I'd been born earlier, Rhaegar would have loved me instead.”

That was something Jorah could imagine Viserys saying. He was a fool of a boy. “ _Khaleesi_ , you were born to be the mother of dragons, not a prince's queen.”

_Drogon_ started to circle the island, slowly descending. A few curious gulls drifted off to the side of them, calling at the strange, black bird. “Sometimes I see him in my dreams.”  _Was she living his life, reborn? Is that why she was drawn to the North? Or was it just that fire sought ice, flirting with destruction like moths around the flame..._ “Starfall is pink.”

“Ay, in this light.”

_Starfall_ filled with screams as the dragon came to land upon tumble of rocks near the waterline, beneath the walls. There were stairs leading back up to the tower cut into the side used by fishermen.  _Drogon_ stretched out his wing, allowing Daenerys and Jorah to climb onto the maze of boulders covered in dried kelp, bone and shell. Jorah went first, pulling his queen over the larger rocks, holding her until the occasional wave passed. By the time they'd reached the steps this side of the island was silent.

They emerged at the top, cold and thick with crusted salt. To their right the rock-way curved around toward the main city but on their left were the pair of mournful towers leaning toward the tide. The closest one – the oldest – housed the sword.

As they approached, Jorah reached behind and drew his ice sword – steadying it in front. The foot of the tower was littered with freshly fallen corpses. A dozen Martell bannermen lay broken in pools of blood. The last reached up to his throat but the flesh was a clean slice of sinew and vein.

Ravens  _were_ faster than dragons.

 


	60. Thorns

 

###  **STARFALL – DORNE**

They both froze.

Daenerys drew a slender dagger from the innards of her boot while Jorah searched the ruined stone for movement. Crows appeared on the wall. Fat insects, nearly too heavy to fly, landed on sprays of flowering nettle which surged out of the dust. Their stems bent under the weight, dipping toward the ground which was a mess of broken blade and blood. Somewhere, in the rock and salt, Anders Yronwood's men consorted with shadows.

There was a scrape of steel at Jorah's feet where a Martell died. A one-eyed gull perched on his back and tugged at the warm flesh. They were feasts of carrion. The scratch of wind against the tower roared in their ears. Jorah felt the sea spray across his arm and heard _Drogon_ far below, scraping himself over the fallen boulders, impartial to their peril.

Daenerys reached to her bear, placing a tiny hand on the curve of his exposed neck where his hair prickled to her touch. “Have they gone?”

“No, _Khaleesi._ They have not gone.”

Her stomach sank as Yronwood's men emerged as a pack from their hide behind the tower, others from within – fifty in all with bloodied swords and the swagger of victory.

“Cocky shits...” Jorah hissed, stepping slowly backwards as they approached. “It was a victory of number not skill.” They had even less chance. Jorah could hear the queen's breath heavy behind him. She whispered his name but his only reply was, “Run to your dragon, my Queen.”

“And leave you here?”

“Aye...” Jorah kept watch on the faces of the men. “Leave me here.”

They were amused by the single knight and his tiny dragon queen. How pale and small she looked against the sea. The blue stretched forever toward the East where she belonged. Perhaps her blood was silver too. Men like these, they'd have her first then run a knife across her throat to find out. Her bones would join Ashara's, scattered as sand.

Jorah's hand tightened on the _Snowflake's_ grip. The ice beneath threatened to burn his skin. Today he was grateful for its magic. He might be able to hold them long enough for her to scale the steps before they cut him down with the others.

He glanced over his shoulder – blue eyes fierce when she failed to move. _“Now, Khaleesi!”_

At the rustle of her cape, the Yronwood men sprang from their perches. Jorah spread his arms, using his considerable span and the rock-way path as a bottleneck, reducing them to four abreast. He lifted his long slither of ice to their blades but they were wise to his trick.

They avoided _Snowflake_ , cutting low toward his body with rhythmic arcs that flowed like water. Several blades crashed against his breastplate, knocking him onto his heels while others missed and smashed against the wall in a riot of green sparks. All of them ended up with limbs dragged against the wall which was sharpened by fragments of red glass. It tore at exposed skin, leaving bloodied grazes on both Jorah and the Yronwood men.

One sword clipped _Snowflake_ and shattered above their heads. The soldier wielding it lurched, set off balance by the sudden loss of momentum. He fell onto another's blade then to Jorah's feet. The bridge of his nose shattered under Jorah's boot and he was forced to scramble back into the froth of soldiers, clutching his face.

The rest came at the knight – swords and hands grabbing for his shoulders. Too many all at once. Jorah veered backwards, shoving men against the stone – displacing rock into the sea below. Another pair of blades met their death on his but then _Snowflake_ was snatched from him. Beneath the ground was slick with a thousand shards of steel. Their boots rolled. One man stumbled, falling heavily against the wall. In the thrall, Jorah wrestled him right over the edge to the surprise of the others.

Protected by plate armour, Jorah lifted his arms, parrying strikes with nothing but his limbs. He fought like a bear – with furious, rebellious, stubborn violence. Another toppled over the wall. He stripped a sword and slashed it diagonally across one of their faces, splitting it in two before kicking the corpse into the crowd. That pushed them back and Jorah found a moment to breathe.

_Crack!_

The man holding Jorah's ice sword accidentally destroyed his neighbours'. Jorah lunged forward, picking off another. His ordinary steel cut through the fine chain-mail and carved a hole between his collarbone and neck. The man howled at the torrent of blood erupting in spurts where an artery had severed.

Another kick of salt broke over the wall startling a raven. The bird caught Jorah's eye as it sailed toward the towers, circling between the twins. Their crumbling stone reminded him of Mormont Keep, built for war. Whatever war that was had passed into the tide.

“ _Argh!”_ Jorah groaned, as a spear came from nowhere – cutting through the crowd to slam against his chest. He looked down to find a smear of poison where the blade bounced harmlessly aside. Ahead, the others parted allowing two warriors through. They carried ironwood spears, glistening with _Tears of Lys._ The poison already in his blood churned. For a moment, the world rippled like a dream.

_Not here. Not now. Raven wings became snow. The shifting wall of Dornish men – a forest of pine._

_Your visions are not real..._ Quaithe had told him.  _Do not be tempted by their hollow promises._ But he was tempted. Temped by their whispers so real and crisp.

He knelt to the ground, taking hold of the discarded spear. Steel was vulnerable to his ice blade but wood was not. The soldier holding _Snowflake_ came at him but the moment they met was marked by an odd _thud._ As one, the spear wielding men danced from behind, pushing off the rock walls in frightening surges. Spear first, they flew at him while he still held the weight of the other man. Jorah fell to his knees and scrambled forward, prying another sword free of a corpse before he immediately turned with both weapons lifted in a wall.

Their weapons met. A clash of steel and sticky, scented death.

On his back, Jorah was pinned. Another spear protruded between Jorah's swords – poison inching closer to his face with a promise of night. He could see it growing into a tear on the point, shivering like the sea as gravity begged.

“ _Finish the old bastard,”_ one of them jeered.

To hell with it. Jorah wasn't going to die at their fumbling hands. He'd rather throw himself from  _The Wall_ . As one of them sensed their opportunity to kill, Jorah lifted both his legs and forced the lighter Dornish man off. If he was a bear, they were snakes – writhing closer – flicking their tongues and lunging like flares of light in a storm.

A sword in each hand, Jorah scrambled to his knees and spun the ornate blades – testing their weight as the rest of the soldiers lost patience and advanced. Walled in by their golden tunics, Jorah whispered a prayer to the olds gods.  _Let Daenerys be with her dragon._

Soldiers slipped past him. He could do nothing as they vanished down the rock-way in pursuit of Daenerys. He railed against those that remained, rising up in a nightmare of sword and blood. He survived a few strikes until the soldier with _Snowflake_ shattered his swords in a single swipe. He tossed the handles at their faces. Unarmed, the thin rod of a spear knocked him back to the wall with a _slap._ Dust flared. Rocks fell.

Jorah's vision blurred again. Snow spiralled in the air. It turned to ash – dusting the landscape.

The spear struck him again. As it came in for a third, Jorah wrapped his hand around the rod and raised the man holding it from the ground. The man and the spear vanished over the edge but another had already replaced him. It was useless. There were simply too many. Even the greatest swordsman could be overcome by numbers and Jorah was a long way from holding that title. He was about to surrender to death when he heard Daenerys' screams.

Streaked with blood, Jorah twisted to see her in the arms of a soldier, writhing and striking. Jorah let out a cry of war – a bear roaring for his kin. Fearful, one of the men took the ice sword and stabbed it through the soft flesh of Jorah's thigh, slipping between the plated steel and his tunic but it was Daenerys who screeched.

Blood poured over her slender thigh as the sword was dragged back. She was dropped in surprise by the man and left to collapse in a puddle of her own blood. Mixed with dirt, she lifted her hands in shock. She could feel the memory of a phantom blade pulse deep in her muscle.

The soldiers backed away from Jorah. His skin was alive with runes and strange markings. The sword which had struck him came away clean.

 _Magic. Blood magic._ _Such things were forbidden._

Almost at once, a rustle came from behind the wall. The men looked to each other.  _Snowflake_ was dropped among the shattered bones of fallen swords. The ground beneath them vibrated. Gurgling, like blow-holes on the shores of  _Astapor_ . Then it came, rising out of the smoke and salt – a great black beast with fire for eyes and teeth the length of swords.  _Drogon._

Daenerys stared at the men and their tower, her eyes thick with tears and blood. As if on command,  _Drogon_ turned to them, opened his jaws and breathed flame until the world turned white hot.

Those that touched the flame did not catch fire. Instead, their clothes and armour pealed away then, before a moment had passed, their bodies became the ash Jorah saw moments earlier. He glanced down at his hands. They were clogged with Quaithe's words. His head spun. The smoke stuck in his lungs mixing with the putrid stench of burned flesh.

He dragged himself along the wall toward Daenerys with  _Snowflake_ in one hand and the sharp rock on the other. As he moved, the dragon's smoke blocked out the light, sending them into a half-night where flame replaced the sun.  _Drogon_ was in flight, circling the tower, incinerating it with fire and all that stood below. The rock glowed red, shifting form – melting.

_Jeor walked along the road ahead, a vision in the ash. His trailing wool cloak and silver hair. A babe in his arms._

Then he was gone.

###  **KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS**

King Tommen Baratheon, first of his name, sat on the expanse of razor and blood which called itself a throne. He'd perched there for many hours, alone in the hall with its echoing spirits and ghastly claws of iron strung around the top of endless pillars. For the life of him, he could not fathom why wars were fought and dynasties crumbled over this morbid place. Power did not sit here. Kings and queens did. Their power came from somewhere other than dead mens' swords.

_Widow's Wail_ lay across his knees. Even inside a case it cut painfully into his thighs. At half the size of the original sword, he could only wonder at the Northern Lords of Winterfell who swung it at their enemies in battle. Surely they were bastards of giants – or he was unusually small.

Beside him stood the second throne. Empty, his queen languished in the High Sparrow's cells. His court was too afraid to sit in session and his common people rallied outside in the streets – starving. Everything was dark – even the chandeliers with their hundred candles each replaced by torches hastily struck onto the walls. Their spirals of flame blackened the stone, dying like stars as a storm rode in.

A brush of fur scratched around his boots.

Ser Pounce, his ginger cat, rubbed his head against the leather, purring deeply. Relief washed over Tommen. The only soul in the kingdom without its eye on the throne. To Ser Pounce, the rusty chair was something to rub its back against and displace a few resting fleas. As his fingers ran through the soft, dust-laden fur he thought of his queen wailing in the  _Sept of Baelon_ . He could not bare to think of her alone with the stone and iron, confined to the floor without a window to see the moon. His power, more than ever, had become a veil. He listened to the whispers of his council. More and more, the swell of the common folk had shifted the throne from the Crown to the Faith and worse, it was his mother whom had opened the door a crack for them.

He was settled. Tonight, as with the last week previous, he'd cross the streets draped in wool and climb one of the sept's towers where his wife was kept. It took an hour to free himself of the castle – through the dungeons and out into the crumbling wall that ran beside the harbour. The rats greeted him with idle twitches in their whiskers while the moon sank behind the peaks and turrets of  _King's Landing_ .

Within the sept, the poor came and went, milling in through plain wooden doors and forks of candles that stretched into the street like twin rivers of fire. Barefoot, King Tommen murmured the words and knelt at the alter with the rest. Ducking into a shadow, he climbed the spiral steps. Close enough to the top to feel the rush of sea wind inside the windows, he paused beside a door. He knocked twice the pressed his ear to the keyhole. Moments passed. Tides dragged. A rustle of life came from within.

“My Lord... My love...” her words clawed their way to his ear.

Tommen imagined her as she was, all draped in blue with roses entwined in her glorious hair. He could not fathom the truth of her wretched state – the rags and filth that she had become. Even the slums in  _Fleabottom_ would take pity on her now. “I'm here...” he whispered back, pressing his hand against the door.

“Loras. Loras...” She asked every night but his answer was always the same.

“He is in the tower with you but I do not know where...” His crimes were greater and so his location kept hidden.

“Never forget,” she'd say, when the night's began to die, “you are the _king_.”

A powerless, paper king on a throne crafted from blood. In a way, the High Sparrow was right. What kind of king was he?  _A good king_ , Margaery would always reply. Kinder than his brother but that was no more a compliment than comparing the sun to a candle.

Tommen returned via the tunnels beneath the palace. He knew them well as did Ser Pounce, who awaited his return curled up atop a dragon skull. “That is impolite,” Tommen warned his cat. “What is that on your paws?”

Ser Pounce flexed them, flashing an iridescent shade of green that seemed to take on a fire of its own. The young king touched the slippery liquid. It rubbed between his thumb and forefinger like oil.  _Wildfire_ . He'd seen his uncle Tyrion with a canister of it before the  _Battle for the Blackwater._ It was made by he maesters, stock piled for generations all under the city.  _'Tread carefully, little brother,'_ Joffrey used to taunt,  _'you might slip and set us all alight.'_ Part of Tommen thought Joffrey  _wanted_ to see the city burn.

“Where have you been?” he asked the cat.

The answer was written on the stone. Smears of wildfire had been left around the ailing tunnels – a print her, graze there – wherever Ser Pounce lingered on his travels. The deeper Tommen followed, the clearer the markings became until he found himself right beneath the ocean wall of  _King's Landing_ . The granite slabs held back the water but he could still hear it crushing alongside. He lingered, tiny pale palm to the wall.

It was everywhere. Wildfire left in barrels with their sides slashed open, bleeding over the storage room. Tommen barely drew breath, frightened the heat form his lips might cast them into ash. Was it the High Sparrow who set them here? Did he seek, as his mother whispered, to tear apart the throne? No. The Sparrow was a man of words. He used them like knives, striking down people with riddles and half-truths until they were impaled on the sept walls. The city suffocated under their web. Even the sun had grown cold, falling faster in the evening – taking longer to rise. _The maesters will know._

*~*~*

“Your Grace -” Maester Pycelle sank low, dragged down by his chain and further by bones that locked in all the wrong places. His robes were simple but laced with smoke from the whore houses. There was honesty in his faults – truth in dishonesty. It proved that he was a man. “Is there some service that I can be?”

Tommen leaned against the opposing wall. “The Battle for the Blackwater...”

“A great victory, to be sure.”

“I'm – not here for vanity. Besides, wasn't it my uncle Tyrion who should be credited?”

“How so? Oh... You mean, for the destruction of Stannis' fleet.”

“Yes. That was his idea, correct?”

“Indeed. He made the request directly. A gamble, Your Grace. Wildfire is by its nature, a danger to its creators and victims.”

“How much of it was used during the battle?”

Pycelle was shaking his weathered head, silver beard scratching against his maester chain. “One could not say. We do not know what was there to begin with. The Mad King is rumoured to have filled every dark place beneath the city. These are strange questions for so late in the evening.” Pycelle was not sure what to make of the new king. He's served the Mad King in all his glorious insanity – Robert through his drunken feuds, Joffrey and his cruelty and finally this strange, quiet child who showed more fondness for books than the Crown.

In reply, Tommen extended his hand and showed Pycelle the stain of wildfire. The maester retreated. “There are other people aware of the fire beneath our feet and I fear they plan to make use of it.”

A shadow wiped across Pycelle's face. His frailty faded. He straightened up, leaning closer to the king. “Not here. Your grandfather's quarters.”

They parted ways. That was the way of  _King's Landing_ . It was a world of whispers.

Tommen reached Tywin's old rooms first. His grandfather had the apartment near the top of the tower with views over the water. Always watching, it was said that he liked to keep one eye on  _Essos_ while he worked. The rooms had been kept like a tomb. Thick layers of dust covered his possessions. Books were left open. The quill he'd been using that night was blackened with ink. Tommen inched closer, lifting the parchment. Dirt slid away.

_'I tire of these half-truths. Either the North is united to our cause or it is not. The vacuum of power left by the Starks must be filled. The North is a shadow over us all.'_

There was no recipient and it was left unsigned. Tommen's footsteps sounded like the fell of a war hammer as he crossed the stone. Above his grandfather's bed was a golden carving of a lion. He stood beneath it, lighting its candles. Tommen was a Lannister king – a lion in the darkness – first of his house to sit the throne even if it was under a mummer's stag.

From there, Tommen moved to the window and the watched the lights flicker in the dark. They went on forever, stretching past the protective walls, across the flats of farm land and into the mountains. Ships clogged the harbour. Ravens circled, searching for their masters. The  _Sept of Baelon_ stood above them all, a beacon in the dark – or a menacing flame, threatening to ignite the hell below their feet.

_Screech._

Tommen jumped away from the window. The door behind him had cracked open and through the pathetic glow of candlelight he could see nothing but the yawning chasm between the wood.

“You are up late, my dear,” Olenna Tyrell shuffled toward her grandson in law.

Tommen recovered his wits and nodded respectfully at the Queen Grandmother. “I could not sleep.”

“Neither could I,” she admitted. “When you reach a certain age, sleep begins to feel a little too much like death. I'd rather not tempt the end.” Olenna dragged one of Tywin's old chairs out and sat herself down, resting her bones. “I know... I look at it too.” She was speaking of the great sept. “They hold us to ransom using your own people as a faceless army – an army that has no idea what it's really fighting for. They are cowards of the worst kind. War between lords is honest.”

“I submitted to their requests, as asked and still they hold them.”

“Poor boy,” there was genuine pity in her tone. How could she not feel when he had Cersei as a mother? “Their demands are as meaningless as their cloaks. Power is what they're after. Power is like land – there is only so much of it to be dived therefore for it must be usurped from those that already have it.”

“Then why not come for me? I am the king.”

“Come closer,” Olenna whispered, nodding at the chair opposite. The boy king sat, uneasy on his grandfather's perch. He had a look of Tywin though – tall for his age and well set – stern eyes and a calm facade. A ruler, perhaps, if he lived long enough. “The power of the Crown sits with your mother. That is why she is held in the cells. Your Grace is a young king, they have your wife, the implication is clear. They intend you as their puppet king. When they have no further need of you – long after the rest of us are dead, you'll join us at the bottom of the Narrow Sea.”

He let the words sink in. Young but not stupid, Tommen already guessed that he was a prop for the Sparrow as his grandfather had intended for himself. “Then it would not be in the High Sparrow's interests to destroy King's Landing. Without the city and its people, he's powerless.”

“Destroy the city...?” Olenna replied in alarm. Tommen shared with her the truth of the wildfire until her skin was pale as milk. “Who else have you told?”

“Pycelle. Where are you going?”

“Go back to your rooms, Your Grace.” She paused, placing her hand on Tommen's arm. “You are my grandson by marriage. Family means everything where I am from. You have thorns now as well as a golden mane.” Pycelle was Cersei's man. She was the only person mad enough to kill them all to prove a point was her.

“I am a stag,” Tommen insisted, straightening to his full height.

“No, my boy. Consider it a blessing. Fury and jealousy make poor bedfellows on the throne. Now go.”

He did not ask the old woman what she intended to do.

###  **STARFALL – DORNE**

The inferno raged around them. Jorah could hear the tear of rock and explosions where bubbles of air trapped in the glass expanded and shattered violently. _Drogon_ lived in the heart of it, claws latched onto the smaller tower while he breathed flame and hell.

Daenerys pressed Jorah to the back of the rock-way where they'd taken cover. She shielded him from the heat, wrapping him up in her soft limbs. They sat there, crumpled together against the only wall that had been spared.

Jorah turned his head. It was like looking into a forge. Everything shimmered, rippling as if through water. The bodies of the soldiers had become piles of ash, blown in sickening spirals by the hot wind. Daenerys screamed at him to stop but the dragon was caught up in the ecstasy of violence. It was born to this. Dragons were fire and blood. Wild creatures with a lust that no amount of nurture could tame.

Fearing that he had exchanged one death for another, Jorah closed his eyes and started to sing one of the old Valyrian songs. It was lost in the roar of the flame.

It ended with a _whoosh_ of cold air, sweeping through to claim back the world from fire's embrace. The towers were blackened wrecks, aglow like embers.

“ _Khaleesi..._ ” Jorah choked through the ash. “Look-” he motioned to the look of the stone as it cooled. Black. Twisted. Oily stone. It had been following them around the world. There'd never been a single mention of a mine or even a name given to the mysterious stone used to build the ancient world. That, it appeared, was because it was not mined. It was _created._

Together, they dragged themselves form the stone wall and stood facing the smouldering visage of the towers, singing in the wind. They were cooling fast, now the colour of soot. Wherever spray from the breaking waves hit, steam lifted. Every scrap of life had been burned away from the ground beneath. The trees were twists of blackened bone. Rocks, once pale pink were ashen. Hidden behind what was a thicket of weeds stood a modest stone marker. An unmarked grave, left at the base of the wall.

Jorah turned to Daenerys and pulled the fabric back from her thigh. She gasped at the boldness of his touch but Jorah was focused on the wound dripping blood onto the rocks below. The sword that should have cut through him had manifested in her flesh. His skin burned with Quaithe's marks. Even now, he'd not look out of place in an _Old Town_ shelf.

One knee on the gravel, his hands around her thigh – rough and warn from the fight, Jorah met her gaze. “I think it's time you told me what happened in Asshai.”

 


	61. Song of the Lion

 

###  **THE SEA OF SOULS – ASSHAI**

“Do you really though – _understand_?” Quaithe asked carefully, looming above the pale child in a wave of red and gold.

Heir to the throne of _Westeros_ , child of the Mad King, the girl knelt amid the ash beside her cold knight. Tears cut tracks over her cheeks while she cupped Jorah's face. There was no breath left in him. Every moment that passed stole colour from his skin. Soon, the fires would descend from the peaks and drag his corpse into the heart of the world. They were all children of fire, forged from the boiling sea.

Fire shifted under their feet – beneath the waves – beneath the fields and deserts – the forests of pine and drifts of snow that moved wordlessly across the North. At _Asshai_ its heat welled into gaping scars, brimming in the throats of the great mountains which flanked the city. Fire dribbled from their black cusps, tumbling in mangled, half-cooled threads. Viewed from the waters of the _Jade Sea,_ the ranges wore crowns of gold – residing like kings over the city man forgot.

Daenerys brushed away fresh flecks of ash that collected on Jorah face. He had never been so peaceful. There was always something of him that was awake – watching over either her or the world approaching them. To see him completely still unsettled her deeply. If he wasn't keeping guard, every danger imaginable was surely on its way. “I understand magic,” she insisted. _“I am made of magic.”_

“The dragon is made of fire,” Quaithe corrected.

“Fire and blood – that is all we are.” Her words were absent. He was half buried already, sinking into the hungry earth. She lifted him out again, digging around his corpse.

“Ash – dust...” Quaithe agreed. “These are the things that make us, so it has been said since the dawn.”

Now it was Quaithe who settled on her knees. Her mask, made of metal pieces, rustled as she undid the scraps of tunic covering Jorah's body.

“What are you doing?” Daenerys asked, as Quaithe undressed him.

“As you asked, young queen.”

“Here?” Daenerys eyed the erupting mountains warily. Surely at any moment they'd be consumed by a flying rock or lost in an avalanche?

“Your knight will not survive the journey to the city,” she replied. “He is already flirting with the darkness. To linger in that half world is to risk losing parts of oneself. Necromancy is not among my gifts. It is forbidden. For good reason. Some say the gods latch onto the living if they pass beneath the shadow.”

They worked together, tearing away what remained like crows picking clean a corpse. There he lay, naked in the smoking drifts of rubble. Everything trembled. The ground. The air. Another plume of churning fire clawed into the air, blocking the remaining light until their world was lit solely by the flames.

Quaithe reached behind her veil and unlatched the tiny gold clasps that held her mask in place. It fell into her hands, revealing a terrible expanse of melted skin.

Daenerys raised a hand to her mouth.

“Fire,” Quaithe whispered. “For those of us that cannot stand within the flames. For you it is a temple. It was my hell.”

“It was – only – I always thought... Are you not a Targaryen?”

Quaithe dipped her head in reply. “Was your brother not proof enough? Or of course, the burning limbs of-”

“Summerhall...” Daenerys whispered. “You were there.”

“I saw it burn,” she replied, laying the mask on her knees. Set behind each panel was a pearl-sized black stone which she removed and placed on the ground around the knight's body – entombing him like a ring of stars. “Wildfire is a terrible thing.” Quaithe remembered how it held Summerhall enraptured, clasped within its green anger that licked across the walls and rolled over the surrounding hills. It did not stop until the skies split. “Have you ever seen it?”

Daenerys crawled backwards, standing with her back to the mountain as she watched. The scars on Quaithe's face were horrific. Her nose was flat with slits for nostrils and sunken cheeks – almost like the face of a pale dragon. Wisps of silver hair grew in patches from her skull, falling in waves that might be the murmur of once beautiful hair. “No,” she breathed.

“It is a bastardisation of flame. I am not convinced that your magic protects you from the crafts of the maesters. They make it in their lairs, deep in the caverns of Old Town. Its shipped secretly across the land. Your father emptied his coffers for it. If you see the fires burn green, do what we do – _run_.” Quaithe pressed the rubies out of her mask and placed them in a line down Jorah's chest.

“Is this magic of R'hllor?”

“No, child...” Next Quaithe removed an inkwell and quill from her robes. Instead of feather, the nib was formed of black glass. She held her bare arm over the body and stabbed it into her vein. Rubbery, it resisted for a moment before yielding to the black dagger. Thick, deep red blood flowed over the curve of her skin and dripped onto the rubies. It swelled around them until they were suspended like islands in the morbid stream which flowed all the way to his stomach then deviated, turning left along a line of muscle until it slipped over his side and into the ash.

Quaithe closed her eyes, lifted her hands and laid her head back. Her words were familiar – the ghost of _High Valyrian –_ its parent perhaps. A few remained the same. _Moon._ Yes, Quaithe spoke of the silver orb that broke the night and hid the stars from view. Of its sister caught in a struggle with the sun. Falling into a trance, she recanted the story of the gods. Her hands lifted, blood ran down her arm into her sleeves. _She fell into the world as a thousand flaming dragons – dying at the edges of the map, bringing shadow and death with the pieces of her corpse. Buried in snow and sand and wave..._

Daenerys feared Quaithe's words were empty. That, like the preachers calling to the skies in the depths of _Meereen_ or the unanswered chants of _Dothraki_ horselords, there was no hope for her knight. He was slipping deeper into death – tangling with the arms of chaos where they threaded themselves around his corpse like a sea creature waiting the wrecks of ships.

The blood on Jorah's skin shifted colour – red to black. It lay in a chasm on his chest – eerily still. Quaithe opened her eyes and stretched out her hand to Daenerys. The dragon faltered. “Does Your Grace understand?” she asked again.

Not everything but she was beginning to see more clearly. This magic was far older than hers, borrowed from a god that slept away from the tide of time. _A god of Asshai_. “No,” she answered honestly this time, causing a smile to crack over Quaithe's thin remnant of lip. _No_ was the correct answer. Mortals were not meant to understand.

“I shall show you,” Quaithe replied, as the queen submitted her hand.

Quaithe took the quill, already bloodied and pressed it into Daenerys' vein. She hissed – writhing like a serpent as the sharp edge of black glass dug deeper. Quaithe held the ink well beneath the queen's arm as she withdrew the quill and waited while the container filled one drop at a time.

“Will this remove the poison?”

“Nothing can remedy Tears of Lys,” she explained. “It is a promise of death. All I can do is build a wall to hold it at bay.” _Drip. Drip. Drip._ “Distract it with a glamour – a second life.” _Drip._

“Cheat death...”

“No one can cheat death,” Quaithe assured her. “We borrow life like we borrow magic. Life and death belong to the gods, Your Grace.”

“And what of these gods?” She asked, as the ink well brimmed. _Drip. Drip. Drip._ It was almost rhythmic as her life ebbed into the glass. Quaithe used one of Jorah's rags to wrap around the wound on the dragon's arm when they were done.

“These gods have no name. They are greedy, selfish and stir only to cause mischief.”

Daenerys felt oddly cold despite the heat emanating from the ground around her. Could that be true? Ser Jorah honoured the old gods but what had that devotion brought? A frozen land besieged with murder lingering on the edge of annihilation. The _Valyrians_ cared nothing for gods and ended in destruction all the same. It seemed not to matter either way. Faith and faithless died alike. Daenerys chose to believe in something else.

She cried out suddenly, grasping her shoulder as pain scraped through her skin. She looked down to see Quaithe drag the bloodied quill along the flesh of Jorah's shoulder, drawing ancient runes into his flesh. The blood she used to write belonged to the dragon queen. “What is this?” Daenerys demanded.

“Payment for a life,” she replied, returning to her work. For every stroke she made with the quill, Daenerys groaned in agony. “Pain is good,” she added, “it means there is hope. If he were dead you'd feel nothing at all.”

Daenerys resolved herself to weather it. _He comes closer with every stroke,_ she thought, _dragged out of death._ Soon, the pain became a cloud that enveloped her. She lay down, stretching out to watch the burning rocks fly over head, curving gracefully before landing on the slopes below them with gentle _thuds._

Quaithe covered all of Jorah's body with her blood spell. As she worked, magic began to stir in the air around them. At first it was barely perceivable but it grew, lifting flakes of ash into the air around Jorah. Daenerys sat up, watching spirals of ash form, spinning like scented smoke trapped in a current of air. _Magic_. Real – tangible magic. The hairs on the back of her neck pricked up. Even the pool of blood on his stomach had ripples forming from its centre, lapping along the edges like a morbid tide.

Through the pain – or the smoke – or the magic, the world started to shift before her. She's not dreaming but she's also not quite awake. Like her time in the _House of the Undying_ , reality has folded over itself and now, instead of a black forest of forgotten buildings, Daenerys saw a puddle of gold at the foot of the mountains and a warm, emerald sea caressing the shore. _Asshai._ Beautiful jewel, flourishing with life. Its pale stone buildings reached up into the mountains which were green and thick with forests. Trails of commerce meandered from every side while hundreds of white-sailed ships lined up to enter the harbour. Buildings, akin to monsters in their impossible forms, were draped in jewel and precious metal which glimmered eerily with the rising sun. It was a pantheon of the gods – the soul of all religions that followed with dragons crowning libraries and monsters from the ocean floor cast into stone.

Daenerys took a step forward toward the splendour but her vision changed. Still in _Asshai_ , she stood in the shade of the Weirwood. Its towering limbs held a crown of violent foliage. A moment later, flames caught them and everything burned.

Above, the sky came alive with falling stars. With searing tails dragged out behind, thousands – more than she could count. They hit the ground. West. North. East. Finally, one came toward her. This one was cold and black, larger than the others is cast a shadow over _Asshai_ as it descended toward the Southern land. She turned, watching it sink. Deeper. Behind the mountains. Then darkness. A while later, the mournful cry of a dragon.

Startled, Daenerys tried to turn back to Quaithe and Jorah but she found herself alone on the volcanic range. Ash became snow as it fell and beneath her, bones littered the mountain flanks as far as she could see. Between the peaks were impossible walls of ice, cutting off the city from the East with blue gates. The snow thickened and with it, a terrible cold. One that reached into her chest and wrapped its bones around her heart. She screamed then gasped for breath. He body burned from within. The world shifted and now there was only snow.

Jorah stood before her. He wore full plate armour, his Mormont seal and a dragon print. A cape, such a deep shade or red it was near-black, billowed out behind him. He looked past her to something in the distance. Blue eyes searching. Clasped in his right hand was a greatsword with a rising sun on its handle and thick blood drenched all the way to the hilt. It dripped onto the snow. _Drip. Drip._ The sound stuck her mind. For a moment she saw Quaithe from the corner of her eye, dipping the quill into inkwell. When she turned back, Jorah had gone leaving only a stain in the snow.

A lion roared.

A wolf howled.

They were both distant – unfathomably far from where she stood. Ice dragged against snow as the song of winter stirred in the pines until even they faded back to ash. For a moment she thought she heard him whisper her name in such dreadful anguish.

Jorah gasped, arching out of the ash. Blood gushed from the pool on his chest. Rubies tumbled off and the embers held aloft by magic fell out of the air. Quaithe rocked backwards, using both hands to press him back down and hold him steady as he fitted.

“What's happening?” Daenerys asked in panic, helping Quaithe to stop his limbs flailing wildly.

“He has found his way back,” she replied, surprised by her own power. Finally he stilled – his eyes open staring into nowhere. He was awake but not conscious. “Do not fear,” she assured her, collecting the rubies and black stones, “this is not a false life. Soon he will recover. I am no witch of the sands.”

Daenerys brushed Jorah's pale hair from his forehead. There was colour in him again and _hope._ She felt something too – a lingering of the runes in her own skin. “What happens if he dies?” Quaithe's gaze fell meaningfully on Daenerys and she now she _understood_. “And if I die?”

“What's dead may _never_ die...”

When she looked up, Daenerys saw stars between the break in the smoke.

Neither awake or asleep, Jorah was dragged into a standing position, propped up between Quaithe and Daenerys. He was able to walk but his progress was mindless as they descended the treacherous mountains. They dressed him back in his rags while Dany draped a hood over her silver hair. The city reeked of toxic fumes, lifting from a river which dragged its putrid waters all the way to the sea.

_The Temple of the Pale Lion_ reared out from the rest of the buildings. Ominous, it dominated this side of the city. They entered at its base, navigating the passages in perfect pitch, feeling their way down the oily corridors with their hands until they emerged in a dimly lit hallway. Footsteps echoed all around but each source too distant to see. Quaithe led them deeper until they came along a section with rooms down each side and Weirwood doors to which Quaithe had a key. They let Jorah sit once they were inside but his blank expression continued.

“It will be some time before he recovers,” Quaithe said, deciding that it was safer if Jorah lay on the slab or rock to their left. “Stay here with him.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, as Quaithe moved to the door.

“Our arrival will have been noted. There are things I must do. No one can know who you are. The city is not safe for creatures of magic.”

She left Daenerys and Jorah alone. Eventually, Jorah fell into sleep but this time it was peaceful.  _He is alive_ , she reminded herself.  _Do not think of Drogo_ ... She could not stand to think of Jorah with the same emotionless facade – dead but alive. She'd been cheated by the gods once, never again.

Quaithe's runes were raw on his skin. Her blood had mixed with his in the open wounds but already those had started to close. Those around his hands even looked as if they might fade. There was one thing that Daenerys knew for certain – she could never tell him what happened here. He'd be furious for a start. Worse, she was sure the truth would hurt him more than these wounds ever could.

There was a knock at the door. Believing it to be Quaithe returned, Daenerys opened it. Hands grabbed at her through the gap. She shrieked, trying to push the door closed but they multiplied, grasping at her rags and hair, dragging her out of the room into the thick of their huddle. She found herself surrounded by necromancers. Near death themselves, they hid pale, sunken faces with heavy cloaks and wore opals cut into teardrops around their necks. Each had different flares of colour within. Caught between fascination, reverence and greed, they tried to steal her away.

Daenerys fought back, struggling out of their grip. She took flight down the corridor, racing into the unknown labyrinth of the temple. Behind, she heard them follow – cloaks brushing walls, torches wavering in the sudden gasp of wind but she was faster than them. Eventually, their footsteps joined the other ghostly echoes. Alone, Daenerys sank into a cavernous room, branching off the corridor. It burrowed deep into the bedrock of  _Asshai_ , almost as large as the cave she and Jorah had found in the mountain.

Taking one of the struggling torches from its iron clasp, Daenerys inched into the room. Her bare feet padded over the glass floor, feeling its unusual layers – as though it were a mountain stream frozen in an instant. Indeed, the whole room felt as though it had been snatched out of time.

She lit each torch she came across and slowly the room took shape. Oval, it was lined with a sculpture of tentacles standing twice the height of a man. Impossibly formed out of black glass, they originated from the centre of the room where a huge stone chair sat upon a pedestal. A throne.

Fascinated, Daenerys approached, holding her torch to the twisted mass of chaos. Her light played in the infinite surfaces until she realised that they were  _tails_ belonging to a cluster of wyvern carved into a nest behind the chair. Fireless dragons, their eyes were filled with black stones that shone red in their depths as though rubies had somehow sunk into their grasp. Bloodstones – found only in the mountains behind  _Asshai_ where dragons first laid their eggs.

She wanted to reach for the throne. To touch it with her bare hand or sit atop the towering platform and gaze over the room as if it were her realm. Fear held her back. It ebbed out of every surface. A thousand screams were trapped in the walls. Memories of fire and blood. Betrayal. Regicide. Forbidden worship and foreign magic – some of which the queen was certain had come from her veins. Mist gathered at her ankles. It rippled out from the holes in the floor – puffing up and sinking again as though some great dragon lived beneath them. Perhaps it was the foundations of the temple shifting.

Daenerys looked again at the throne. Of all the chairs men had made for themselves, this was for a god.

“ _You do not know who you are...”_ A voice curled out of the air behind her. Daenerys spun around, twisting in the mist but there was nothing.

“I am a Targaryen!” She replied to no one.

There was something else in the room. A pale witch – slender and tall, long white hair and eyes like the sea. The mist moved through her, breaking the fragile image.  _“And what are they but shadows...”_ The image of the woman replied, shifting in and out of focus.  _“Night after the dawn.”_

The vision paused beside the statue of the wyvern. Blind. Fireless. She thought of Viserys and his golden crown. _When we die, we must give our magic back,_ Quaithe had said, _power is an illusion._

Daenerys saw the room afresh. This was the future and the past, merged together. A dream that repeated with every curtain of darkness – their fall before the gods and the empty crowns of kings. Their bones littered the world like fragments of the moon.

The necromancers found her kneeling on the glass with her hands held to the sky. She dreamed of a woman, white like the snow, standing on an ocean of ice. Above, the stars shone so bright their flickering corpses reflected on the ground. _Who is she?_ Amethysts rained onto the ice, tumbling from her robes. A frozen queen – watching her.

 


	62. White like the Snow

###  **THE RUINS OF STARFALL – DORNE**

Fury burned behind his cold eyes. Fear followed. Then reality sank, as sure as the stars into the sea. Jorah lifted his arms and ran his eyes over the faint traces of Quaithe's runes. They were already fading into his flesh. _Her blood. His Queen. What had she done? No good ever came of blood magic. It is known._

“Undo it.” He commanded. She shook her head, blackened with soot from the smouldering towers of _Starfall_. They crumbled behind, leaning awkwardly with the smaller contemplating a final tumble into the waves. Ten thousand years had fallen to a single flame. “Undo it!”

He had never raised his voice to her but now he dared, striding forward until she shrank against the wall. He _was_ a bear.

“I _can't_... What's done is done.”

“No!” Jorah refused to believe. “We shall find Quaithe. I will make her take the words back. She _promised_ me in that hell of a city that you were safe. She lied. She _lied._ ”

“I'm as safe as I can ever hope to be in a world that wants all things to die.” Daenerys pushed off the wall and approached him with renewed fervour. “This was my choice. A gamble, I grant you but if I had not taken it I'd never have made it this far. It wasn't only your life I bought that night – it was mine as well.”

Even if that were true it felt like a lie on her tongue.

“There's no point us arguing about the things we cannot change,” she added, when the silenced dragged between them. It was filled by the sound of rubble crumbling. On the other side of the city, citizens fled into boats, braving the incoming tide to escape the dragon. Their boats missed the port and washed into the _Torrentine_ , breaking on the curves of its meandering tail, expelling them onto the banks. From there they spilled into the _Red Mountains._

Jorah understood that Daenerys was right. Forcing himself to focus, he turned to the black towers. The dragon had damaged them severely but at least all of Yronwood's men were dead. Beyond dead...

“Could the sword survive?”

“Most likely,” Jorah replied. “Though it will be many hours before the tower is cool enough to enter. _Khaleesi_? No...”

Daenerys brushed right by him and wandered over the ash, limping with her injured leg. He could not follow. The heat pushed him back to the rock-wall where he was forced to watch the queen vanish into the doorway whose wooden beams were still red and licking flames.

Inside, the tower might have been the spine of R'hllor himself. The stone, once blonde and sparkling, now dripped with grease. It struck to her as she passed through the entrance, falling onto her back only to slide over the rivets of bone. There were bodies piled up against the walls, not quite burned through. Locked in life's final gasp, they had clawed at the only window but been met by flame. She forced herself to look. This was the truth of her dragon. If she faced the horror it might protect her from becoming like her father.

She climbed the steps. Their bannister was made of blackened charcoal so she dragged her right hand against the wall instead where it was warm, as though the rock itself was now alive. Perhaps it was. She'd always felt there was a soul residing inside the jungle city of _Sothoryos_ and the buildings of _Asshai_ which moaned in despair.

Higher.

The windows revealed a cloud of smoke stretching towards the mountains. It had a cold wind at its back, unusual for this time of the year. She lingered when the glow from the _Hightower_ caught her eye. From this distance it appeared as jewel clasped at the top of an obelisk.

Higher still.

Daenerys reached the final level. It was a small space – circular and bare except for a single wooden table. It had disintegrated in the heat and now lay as a pile of broken wood without legs. The glass case that sat atop was smashed and its glass re-melted into puddles that looked like water collected in the leaves of Spring. The Valyrian steel holds that held it together were unharmed. She picked them out from the mess, marvelling at them for a moment.

What lay beneath was the most beautiful construction man could make. A milkglass blade – pale as pearl, was held by Valyrian steel claws and decorated with gold and flecks of ruby. On the top of its handle was a crude carving of the rising sun. _Dawn._ The most magnificent of swords.

###  **THE SUNSPEAR – DORNE**

Face to face with _Rhaegal_ , Missandei knelt in the wet sand. The dragon was deeper in the waves, splashing and playing as the tides moved towards the shore. They were running fast, stealing the flats away. In a few short hours, only water would remain, shimmering like the desert's thousand mirages.

There was nothing sublime about the serpent. It had wings but they were scaled and edged in knife-like tips. Feathers from doomed gulls were woven into its skin while large scars from previous violence had healed a paler shade of green. Its eyes were a filthy hue of gold that watched the world for prey. They were creatures of death – enormous beasts that fed upon the weak and brought empires down regardless of their worth. One dragon alone, even one as small as _Rhaegal_ could alter the future of the world. A walk through history revealed them and their ruthless masters as the founders of slavery. Empires formed of blood.

But how to kill one?

Dragons killed dragons but to bring down a creature without one required nerve. Missandei gazed into its eyes. They were large and guarded by a thick, transparent skin. It was through those eyes another dragon had met its death in Dorne. _Meraxes_ ' head lingered in a dungeon beneath the _Red Keep_ but her body was left to wash out with the waves. It had been said that her silver scales still washed up on this stretch of sand for a moment in the sun.

Without warning, _Rhaegal_ rounded on Missandei. The beast waded through the water, slithering towards her at terrifying pace. Even on land they were dangerous. It stopped where the water ended and reared up onto its legs. Its wings spread out, dripping salt in two great fans.

She fell onto her back, raising a hand in submission.

“Easy...” Missandei cooed at it, concealing her fantasy. The dragon turned its head from side to side like a bird, inspecting her with each of its eyes separately. Something of its mind pierced hers. Searching. Whatever it might have been looking for, _Rhaegal_ lost interest and scrambled off along the beach, picking up pace before launching into the air. It would circle the _Sunspear_ for some time before finding a nest in the old tunnels situated on the sea-edge of the great city. Abandoned and vast, there was more than enough room for a dragon to curl up.

*~*~*

“Lost your bride already?” Varys asked casually, as he entered Prince Quentyn's room. The man was lazing in scraps of silk that barely covered his lean form. Muscles quivered in the breeze creeping through the window. Golden chains hung low to his navel – sliding against each other as he reached across to a smoking pipe. “Or perhaps it is of no concern...”

“Careful spider – I'm not one for your web,”” Quentyn warned, as he wrapped his lips around the neck of the pipe and dragged the smoke into his lungs. He held it there until the burn forced him to expel it into the room. It joined the rest which already swept across the floor in a perfumed mist.

If Varys were capable, he might have smiled. “I believe you may be right.”

“That's the thing about spiders,” the prince continued, as if he had not heard Varys' reply. “They wait for fate to decide. Hidden away in keyholes and cracks in the walls. Then they scurry out and wrap the dead in yards of silk for later. It's a coward's kill.”

“I suppose you prefer hornets.”

“Hornets hunt spiders,” he shrugged. “You need not look so worried,” Quentyn offered Varys a drag from his pipe. For politeness he obliged but not without a wary once over. “I am an honest man. I do what I say I will do. Games of the throne tire me.”

Varys fought back the urge to cough out his lungs. The smoke was vile. He was sure that the world was hard enough to survive without poisoning oneself. “And yet here you are, in line for a crown.” Being engaged to Daenerys was no small thing. “An accident of circumstance?”

“Necessity,” he assured Varys. “I want what you want.”

“My child...” Varys drawled patiently, “you have _no idea_ what I want.”

“Another guest? I am popular today...” Quentyn remarked, as the Lannister also appeared in his door. Tyrion and Varys eyed each other curiously for a moment before Varys ceded and shrank back into the palace to net some other insect. “Be careful with that one,” Quentyn added, when he was alone with the imp. “Never trust anything without a cock.”

Tyrion frowned even though that was not the first time he'd been offered those words. Mind you, Dorne had a particular focus on cocks. They adorned most of the architecture along with embossed panels that would make most lords and ladies blush. If it weren't for the pressing war of conquest with the realm he'd consider retiring to a villa within the city. “Women don't have cocks.” He pointed out, to which Quentyn nodded.

“Exactly. Sit.” Quentyn cleared the small table in front of them, unearthing a battle map of the city and surrounding lands. “Tell me, what is it like to fuck your sister?” He asked, rather casually as he weighted down the edges with stone idols.

Tyrion stammered, set off balance. “Wrong Lannister...” Was all he could think to reply with.

“Ah – wise. The queen is mad-cunt. Never a good idea. Dorne has plenty of those. They say it is the heat. I rather believe it to be the pipe. Smoke?” He offered it to Tyrion as he had with Varys.

Unsure what exactly to say and certain he didn't want to smoke, Tyrion cleared his throat and focused on the map. “I understand the Sunspear has won a great many wars.”

“Mostly against your like.” He placed markers for their standing armies around the map. “It's the ones we lost that interest me. You learn very little from a victory.”

Behind his boyish face and pretty looks, Quentyn was every bit the schemer. Martells were famous for it. Tyrion was yet to decide if he could be trusted. That could wait until after the war, if they were still alive. “What about Yronwood in particular?”

“Not since Nymeria brought every man in Dorne to his knees. Unfortunately for us, he is less likely to quiver before your silver lady. They did not exactly take to one another at the festivities.”

“Well – this time we have a dragon,” Tyrion said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He'd always thought that the world was too big for him, especially as his feet dangled in an undignified fashion over the edge of the cushion.

“An unbroken steed,” Quentyn dismissed. “He's a terror in the sky. Has he been blooded?”

Tyrion cleared his throat. “Ah – sort of. A bit.” That was a stretch. “In Braavos he and his brother brought the Iron Bank to heel.”

“That was the black one, if the stories are to be believed. Lying to me will do you no good. I ask these questions in the hope of drawing a battle plan where the pair of us get to keep our necks.”

“Isn't that a job for-” well, he didn't want to insult the prince but surely...

“Someone else? I am commander of the Dornish army when I'm not wooing young dragon queens.”

Children. The fate of the realm lay in the hands of children. “Right. Well... If Rhaegal gets the scent of war he may join in. From what I've seen he acts in the queen's interests best he can. An attacking hoard will be easy enough for him to distinguish but if fighting spreads into the city he might get – excited...”

“And gift us to the Lord of Light.”

Tyrion nodded. “As you say.”

“Let us aim for a different outcome.”

Tyrion shook his head in dismay at the documents. “This is not the war we intended to fight.”

This amused the prince greatly but he would not say why.

###  ** THE WALL – THE NORTH **

Lord Commander Thorne braced himself against the door. Its planks of ironwood were clogged by ice welled into every hollow. Melted by the fires within _Castle Black_ it soon felt the touch of Winter and froze again, sticking the doors and windows until everything became impossible to use. They were being buried alive inside their home. _A tomb_ , Thorne lamented.

“You bastard, shift!” He hissed. With a firm kick the ice cleaved off and he fell with the door. It slammed into place, sending a tremor through the soul of the building. Everything creaked. Sometimes he feared that the castle was held together with nothing but ice. Perhaps that had been true for a while.

Since Jon Snow's magical resurrection, _The Wall_ had been held in a truce. Men of the Night's Watch and Wildlings that refused to travel South with their kin lived together, huddled around the fires. Despite his initial apprehension, Thorne was glad of the extra hands. They were rough, to be sure but half his lot were murderers and the worst of the kingdom. At least the Wildlings _knew_ the North. They helped gather wood soft enough to burn and brought in squirrel meat when the weather was fair to ease their stomachs. Anyone caught speaking ill of _anyone_ was reprimanded. Truthfully, there'd been none of that of late. It was as though they could all feel the danger creeping toward them. The presence struck the men into an eerie quiet. They lived in _The Wall's_ shadow. Sometimes the only sound Thorne heard was the crackle of his candles or the deep cracking of ice. Others said there where whispers coming from the stone. They uncovered white roots, woven into the masonry – bridging gaps between the rock and the ice. He'd found a few poking out from the corner of his room.

“Another five,” one of his men said, stumbling in from the kitchens. His beard was speckled with ice and his skin a sickly grey from a short trek in the forest. “Found them sleeping beside the corpse of a bear.”

“Fighting men?” Thorne asked.

“Two, yes. The others are women.”

A year ago he would have bawked but now he dipped his head. “Ask them if they want to wield an axe or work the kitchens. See if any of them can read. What about the bear?”

“Rancid. Looks like it died before they got to it.”

Shame. A bear was enough meat for a week.

“Aye and a – somethin' else.” The man waited for his Lord Commander to nod. “Word from the West. Had a traveller say there was a large explosion near Westwatch by the the Bridge. They were sure it was the bridge...”

“Right,” Thorne replied. He'd send ravens to the Mormonts. They were closest to that castle. News of the Wildling massacre on their shores had reached Thorne last week followed by sightings of pack ice in _The Bay of Ice._

Some men faced death and found religion. Thorne stared down the end and emerged with his honour reformed. He re-took his vows and communed with the old gods. He spent time with the frail and young, teaching them how to hold a sword but more importantly – set fire to the snow. That said, he was still an ill-tempered shit. In the last months he'd sent ravens to every corner of the realm, begging for support. A few came. Many were unprepared, dying on the road. Others heard of the horror at Winterfell and ran from their caravans into the snow where they'd surely die. Every corpse south of _The Wall_ was a waste. The maesters at _Oldtown_ had sent barrels of wildfire. Thorne scattered it through _Castle Black._ If their defences fell, the last thing the enemy's eyes met would be a wall of green flame.

Thorne descended the uneven steps into the depths of the castle where the library nestled. They begged him daily to burn the books for warmth but he'd rather burn the men and threatened to do so if they asked again.

When he had first taken to spending his evenings here he'd assumed it would be the warmest room in the castle. He was wrong. There were times that he swore the library was boarded by _The Wall_ itself and its stone was made of ice. With no windows, the soot from his candles collected in sinister orbs on the ceiling – which was hazardously low, scraping his skull if he forgot to crouch.

Tarly and Snow spent all of their free hours with noses buried in the scrolls. Who was he to argue with a man that could fight against the tide of death? Even the old dragon used to meander around the narrow rows, seeking something left in the collection. After weeks of idle searching, Thorne decided to approach the task like everything else in his life.

He strode to the end of the furthermost shelf and emptied it onto the floor. Every last scrap found itself splayed across the stone. Then, accompanied only by his candle, he picked the items up and examined them, one at a time, before replacing them on the shelf. Anything that caught his eye he set aside on a table. He'd learned many things since then. An entire wing of _Castle Black_ was rediscovered behind what they had mistaken as a storage cupboard. It now slept their growing numbers. The recipe for wildfire – though they lacked the ingredients to test it. Ancient correspondence between the Kings of Winter and the early Commanders of the Watch. Thorne had read those with particular interest, especially as they described a Winter deeper and colder than what surrounded them now. He wondered if they had the strength to live in cold that froze eyes solid and turned men into stone where they stood.

It was there, late into the night, with sleep dragging at his soul, when the candle died. First a flicker – then a trail of smoke rising from the glow. With darkness came the sound of ice. Throne dropped the parchment and took hold of the brass candle holder. He moved swiftly between the shelves, focused on locating its replacement he'd left at the desk. As the glow appeared around the last shelf, Thorne leaped backwards into the parchment, knocking a storm of books to the floor. Breath evaded him as he held his chest, digging his nails into the fur. Fear, like that he'd never felt, gripped his muscles and glued him in place.

Behind the halo of light, lurking in the depths of the shadow, was a pale face. Dead. Alive. Dream or ghost...

He looked again but the face vanished. Mustering his courage, Thorne approached the candle and lit a fresh one for his holder. The room brightened but he was alone once more.

_I am half mad..._ He thought. The hunger got to everyone eventually. If not the hunger – the cold was waiting to steal the last of a man's sense.

###  ** WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH **

Pausing at the markings, Tormund sat his towering body on the snow. He'd been walking the outskirts of the Godwood, scouting the area for game and runaways when he'd come across an odd formation of rocks. Once hidden beneath ferns and weeds, the snow had killed everything but the towering pines. Their girths were large enough for five men to form a ring and still have room spare for a good looking woman. He'd seen pines like those in the _Haunted Forest_ , too heavy and old to sway. They were more akin to stone than tree. Their size would prevent them from freezing even when the worst of Winter arrived.

The stones reminded him of formations uncovered while building the last great Wildling city. Mance himself had knelt between them, holding commune with the rock.  _ 'Made by Children,'  _ Mance had said. He'd spent some time teaching Tormund what the odd markings etched into their surfaces meant. Tormund had never gone so far as to ask how Mance learned to read such things.

He brushed snow out of the grooves and lingered with them for some time.

Later, Tormund discovered Jon Snow beneath the ailing Weirwood. Frost had turned is red leaves white and it no longer gave to the harsh wind. “They look like this where I come from,” he said, softening his approach.

“Dead?”

“Sleeping. Mance said the blood trees never die. They wait with closed eyes for the world to pass.”

“I wonder if they can still hear our prayers...” Snow replied, absently. “My father used to come here all the time. Sit on that rock,” he pointed to the boulder leaning into a steaming pool, “and sharpen our family sword. He always joked that he came out here to escape mother's nagging but I found him once, whispering to the tree as though it were one of his old friends.”

“Shouldn' go whisperin' to trees an' the like,” Tormund replied. “Never know who's listenin'.”

“What is wrong with the Old Gods hearing our prayers?” he asked. Jon had always seen the Weirwood as an old friend – the one place in all the world where he could come to be close to his father. His bones weren't even in the crypt. There was an empty tomb and a statue in his likeness – built by Lord Baelish of all people, as part of a pact with Catelyn Stark. It was not the same. Northern kings rested beneath  _ Winterfell. _ That was their way.

“The gods don' do us no good.”

It was hard to fault that argument. “My brother Robb was meant to rule the North,” Snow added, stepping away from the tree. Steam continued to lift from the pool beside them. He'd thought with the dragon gone it might freeze over but something else stoked the fires beneath  _ Winterfell _ . “Never me. I'm the bastard – sent to The Wall.”

“We don' have bastards beyond The Wall. Every man is someone's son.”

“If enough of us die, that might become true here.” He stood in front of Tormund – a friend, it was fair to say. There was more holding them together than divided. “The Wildlings do not trust me. They've...” he looked toward the mountains, “...scattered to the wind.”

“I said they'd come back when yer call an' they will,” Tormund swore. “They must rest.  _ You  _ must rest. Death is coming for us. There is no point losing sleep over it.”

“I  _ can't _ sleep.”

“Bugger yerself with wine.”

“It's not that,” Jon replied, tugging the furs around his neck. It was growing colder. Night clawed at the edges of the sky. The Red Witch's fires had already been lit around the ruins.  _ Winterfell _ was rising from its corpse, stone by stone with Baelish's coin. “I don't dream any more. When I close my eyes there's this wall of emptiness. Darkness without end. There's no rest in that.”

“You've gone an' looked beyond the night – no one's meant ter do that.”

*~*~*

“Breaking the army into smaller parties and sending them to hold various castles has helped keep them alive,” Sansa announced to the room. It was night. An urgent strategic meeting had been called with Jon, Sansa, Davos, Tormund and Peter. Other lords kept to the edges, shivering. “We are spread perilously thin. An attack from the Crown would be indefensible at this point.”

“The Crown has better things to do than fight over a feuding North. They're only interested in us when they've use of our army.” Snow replied.

“I disagree. Queen Cersei is vile, savage and  _ mad _ . Revenge is cause enough to move her to strike but it'll be  _ entitlement  _ that wields the sword. We're  _ hers _ by right and she'll see to it that we're returned to the fold on spikes or our knees. Now...” Davos leaned over the map, nudging some of the figurines around, “the closest army loyal to her is holding the Blackfish under siege in Riverrun.”

Sansa shifted uncomfortably. “They'll be there for a long time. He'd starve in his castle rather than open the gates.”

“I agree. Not sure his men do. Most of 'em are hungry and suffered during your brother's war,” Davos continued. “Sooner or later something will give. However, given the choice, Cersei might send the Lannister army after us. Your uncle is pinned to the castle whether there are men on the ground or not. If that happens, we're not in any kind of shape to fight them off.”

“The snow might...” Jon finally spoke. He was watching it fall now, tumbling outside the crack in the castle wall. “They're Southerners. Riverrun is all mud and mist but up here – their horses will freeze to death and the men with them.”

“Begging your pardon, my Lord,” Davos clasped his hands respectfully behind his back, “Stannis was a Southerner and his army pushed beyond The Wall.” He did not repeat the outcome in respect of Tormund.

“Then what do you suggest, ser Davos?” Sansa asked calmly. The snow was so heavy it sounded like rain. If this continued, it would be in danger of putting out the fires.

“One more week of rest then we gather our forces and head North. There are plenty of castles at The Wall. We settle in for the battle to come. Mend the structures. Bulk our supplies. The Lannisters can take the North-” he was interrupted by sudden unrest but he quietened them enough to continue, “-for now. If there's no one here to conquer and the weather remains hostile, they will leave or occupy in such small numbers that we can reclaim the land when we are done.”

Everyone seemed to be in agreement. It was a sensible plan. Strategically sound. All except the bear.

“No...” said Lady Mormont, her word so firm it nearly snuffed a candle. “There must  _ always  _ be a Stark in Winterfell. Abandon the rest if you will but Sansa must remain here for the duration of the campaign.”

Davos tried to be polite and mindful as he replied, “It is not the time for superstition.”

“You are mistaken. Superstition exists solely for times like these.”

“It's all right,” Baelish stood, approaching the table. He'd been sitting at the edge of the room, observing like the others who were not directly involved. “I'll assign part of the Vale's army to her protection. We will continue fortifying Winterfell.”

_ And when the curtain falls, Littlefinger will control the heart of the North. _ Jon, Sansa, Lyanna and Davos all saw the natural progression of the offer but it was the least dangerous one on the table. For now.

“That is kind of you, Lord Baelish,” Sansa replied for the others. “I will remain, in the crypts if I have to. We'll make of this ruin what we can.”

“Keep the children and those unable to fight. Fall back to the Vale if all else is lost.” Jon added, and it was agreed. “To The Wall, then...”

“To The Wall...” The room agreed.

“Send the ravens.”

*~*~*

Sansa helped Jon pack, not least of all because he had no possessions of his own. They met in maester Luwin's chambers where some of the Stark things had been stowed away during the Bolton sacking. Many of their treasured things had been burned but Eddard's Stark's clothes were put away in an old chest which Jon dragged into the middle of the floor.

It felt strange, looking down on the material remains of his father. He felt Sansa's hand on his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts.

“I'm a lot smaller than him,” he noted, holding up a leather tunic.

“The furs will hide it,” she replied. “And one of the Wildlings is rather good at alterations. She is headed to The Wall with you. I will ask her to help.”

“Is this what our great house has become? Picking through scraps...”

“These are the times great houses are formed,” she assured him. “We  _ built  _ this castle out of the rock and ice, we'll do it again.” Sansa paused, catching his eye. “Winter is here – perhaps the night with it. We won't be the only ones with nothing by the time this is through. All we have to do to win is survive so you go to The Wall – you take these people – friend and stranger – and you  _ survive. _ Swear it. I can't do this alone unless I know you're coming back.”

Jon felt death in his soul. An old friend, it called back to him, arms outstretched and face smiling. They'd meet before the end. “I know what you want to hear,” he replied. “But I can't say the words. You have to survive for your own sake.”

“There's no denying you're a Stark...” Sansa reached up, brushing her glove across his cheek. “Harsh and cold like the snow but no less honest.”

A knock at the open door disturbed them. Davos entered, dipping his head. “Pardon, Your Graces... There's a convoy coming into the valley flying Reed banners. What shall we do?”

The siblings looked to each other. “I will ride out to meet them,” Jon replied.

###  ** STARFALL RUINS – DORNE **

Dawn was nearly as long as she was tall. Daenerys took the ancient weapon in both hands, salvaging it from its ruined bed and dragged it out of the collapsing tower. Emerging from the wreck she saw her knight – torn and weathered with the sea at his back and _Drogon_ scratching through the smoking gravel beside. Ruination. Hell. These are the things fire left in their wake. From the pitch, life would claw out – feeding from destruction. She'd seen it before on the black shores of _Sothoryos_. Perhaps green forests might replace the ice one day, feasting on her warmth.

“Kneel...” she commanded, stopping in front of ser Jorah. He was shocked, staring at the jewel sword in her hands. Never had a more beautifully crafted slither of sword graced the world. It was flawless in balance and sharp to a fault. As Daenerys moved, both sides of its blade cut the air. He was so distracted that she had to repeat her order.

Knees in the dirt, Jorah lifted out his hands, receiving the sword from his queen.

“To hold in trust – until one of us dies...” she whispered.

“Aye, _Khaleesi._ Then to return to its home.” Jorah shook his head, quite unable to believe the item in his hands. Eventually he stood and began weighting his sword – spinning, swinging and holding it to the sun.

Daenerys recovered _Snowflake_ from the ash and together they approached _Drogon_.

“Are you warming to her?” Jorah asked, when he caught her smile at the ice.

“Appreciating her worth... Why do some weapons have names?” She asked, when they were on _Drogon's_ back heading toward the stretch of desert. “A sword doesn't need a name to kill.”

Jorah's thumb kept finding the indent where one of the stones was missing. It was still the most glorious weapon. A jewel in its own right. It should be laid on velvet and displayed for the world rather than shut up in a tower with decades passing it by. “They are the castles of the weaponry world. A town may build a hundred huts but it's only the creature of stone rising from their heart that bears a name. It is the same with swords. Blacksmiths name their favourites – the ones that define them. Sometimes for a sentiment, often for a purpose.”

“Dawn...”

“The rising sun. This sword is named for hope.” Or something else. He'd thought about it before, a lifetime ago. When his father had first sat him down in the empty halls of _Bear Island_ and taught him of the Valyrian swords he'd wondered about the outlier from Dorne. As Dacey always told him, the simplest answer was usually correct. Was this the sword that brought about the dawn after the night?

“Why don't you tell me what you're thinking?” she asked. “I see you – looking into the sky but the words are writ in those scars of yours.”

“The Battle for the Dawn involved a rather famous sword – one that burned in the dark and vanquished the frozen army. This sword is the oldest on record. It pre-dates the Valyrian conquest. The Daynes always boasted that it had been in their house ten thousand years. Those are the Dawn Days, Your Grace – the time of heroes and monsters. Even if only some of that is true...”

“Our sword isn't burning.”

“Fair point. That comes with magic. Daenerys... I know where your heart lies. Your dreams are of snow not a throne in the South. Why risk a battle at _King's Landing_?”

He'd caught her out. She avoided his gaze, preferring the dunes rising in front of them. “Unity.”

“No.”

“Legitimacy. I need Westeros. They won't follow me into the abyss if I am not their queen and when I am done, I intend to leave rulers in my wake to pick up the pieces of what will be a terribly broken world.”

“You will rule in peace as well as war,” he tried to assure her.

“Not in my dreams...” she whispered, her voice wavering. “There's only darkness. I never see the dawn.”

The sword across his lap was the closest she'd get to the rising sun.

###  ** THE WALL – THE NORTH **

Thorne woke in a pool of sweat. His sheets had already begun to freeze, crunching as he sat up and rubbed frost from his beard. It was the same dream, three nights in a row – ever since he'd seen the face behind the flames.

It was a woman's face – dipped in ice and eyes like the blue rose.

Her vision had latched onto him. Every time he closed his eyes she was there, silently following. He decided not to sleep at all.

Gathering himself, Thorne took to the lift that braved the face of _The Wall_. The old chains groaned as he grasped the wheel and pushed. The cogs screeched. In the North it was too cold for rust. Their steel was as strong and clean as the day it was made, lifting Thorne above _Castle Black._ The height confirmed what he had feared. Less and less of the forest survived. The trees that did – mostly the old pines, were starting to snap under the weight of the recent snow falls. _Mole's Town_ was a sad bump in the snow and the roads South had vanished. He thought he'd hate it – or fear it but Thorne found some comfort in the Winter.

“Snow on me all you fucking like...” he whispered. “You won't make me like you any less.”

He almost re-considered his words at the top. The wind from the other side was so fierce that it blew a mist of razor sharp ice off the crest and on the other side, the _Haunted Forest_ had nearly vanished under the carpet of white. The rest was shrouded in fog, so thick he could not tell where the snow ended and sky began.

“Mornin'...” One of his watchmen said, opening the lift gates for the Lord Commander. “Come to take a peek?”

“Fresh air,” he replied, swallowing a lump in his throat he was sure was ice. “Anything?”

“Nothin'. A whole lot of silence.”

“Don't bemoan the quiet days – you'll be praying for their return one day.”

“Be-?”

Thorne shook his head in amusement, stepping onto the landing where the metal brackets of the lift ended and the true wall began. Its ice foundations were nearly blue, as if they were made from sea water. He'd heard stories of the rises of similar ice near the _Fist of the First Men._ When the men of the Night's Watch laid eyes on the twisted forms they'd fallen to their knees in the snow and whispered urgent prayers to whichever god was closest.

“We was about to finish our watch,” the man continued, leading Thorne towards their small fire where the other one was making tea out of pine needles. “Was there somethin' you needed?”

“Tea would be lovely,” Thorne replied, taking a cup from the other man. “Strange bird.”

“Beggin' yours?”

Thorne pointed with his steaming cup. “Over by the gap where the sun's coming through.” They had to squint to follow Thorne's lead but sure enough, cruising in circles at the edge of the wood, far off along the Eastern bank of the wall, was a bird.

“We're still gettin' eagles – mostly white 'nes.”

“That is not an eagle,” Thorne assured him. “How far do you figure that is?”

“Near thirty-four mile.” It was almost at the edge of their horizon.

“Keep watching it...” Thorne replied, finishing his tea.

He left the watchmen to their perch and returned to his study where a fresh cluster of ravens warmed themselves in front of the stone fire. Their letters lay on his desk, unbound and flattened best as could be done by his new steward. His other one up and died to a fever in the night. They'd had to feed him to the dogs to keep the beasts alive.

“Has the world heard us?” Thorne asked the boy.

“The North has heard. There's an army on its way made up of those that usurped the Boltons. They ask permission to man abandoned castles along The Wall.”

“Let us hope they had the good sense to bring supplies or they'll be eating snow like the rest of us. Tell them to start with the Nightfort. We've men there who can help them. Then I guess... Westwatch and Eastwatch – doesn't hurt to keep an eye on our flanks.” Unless Snow brought fifty thousand men with him it made little difference. The magic of _The Wall_ kept the Winter at bay – nothing else.

The boy nodded and penned the reply after which he scampered about the room, capturing one of the ravens. It struggled as the message was tied onto its leg and resisted its rude exit into the snow.

“This?”

“Archmaester Marwyn.”

“Does the creature having nothing better than whisper in my ear? Go on then, what mischief has he now?”

“He speaks of Lord Hightower-” that served to catch Thorne's attention. “-Marwyn does not presume to know the details of your correspondence but warns that the man himself has been dead for some time. Then – then something I cannot read.”

“ _Valar Morghulis...”_ Thorne read for him. “It is a Braavosi saying. _All men must die._ Hightower was murdered. Anything else?”

The steward held up a silver coin.

“All right. No reply. File it away and feed his bird. It's a warning – nothing more.”

He nodded and gathered up some scraps of bread. There was barely enough to sustain the collection of bone and feather. “Did you hear, this morning... There was a song on the air.”

“Your vows apply to Wildling women just the same...” he cautioned.

“No... Rather, a bird of some kind like I'd never heard. It sang all through the last of night until the dawn.”

“I did not hear it,” Thorne replied. His nightmares had ownership of him during that time. The woman and her silent death.

*~*~*

The days were short and raced toward their end. Noon came and already a shadow grew from _The Wall_. Men, who had retired to sleep through the day, woke to re-take their watch. _Castle Black's_ lift cut its way along the ice. In all its thousands of years, the craftsmanship held true. If _The Wall_ was half as strong as the chains dragging their weight, perhaps they'd have a chance.

“You see that bird?” One of the men asked.

The skies were clearer. Fog from earlier had burned away leaving them with a brief look at the sky. It was empty. “Nah. Must've flown South – if it had any sense.” They laughed together, meandering along the narrow divide between the rises of ice either side that acted as turrets. As soon as the ground began to curve underfoot it became impossible to scale so they'd hammered nails into their boots for grip. In every respect, the structure was a nightmare to man but that hostility to the world protected them. “Thought your brother was comin' up?”

“Stayed South when my father died. Sparrow got him.” His compatriot gave him an odd look. “Not a bird sparrow. It's the name they give to the faith leader – the High Sparrow,” he explained. “Father was in King's Landing on trade. Sparrows beat 'im in the street with all them Southerners cheering. Fuck the South. Brother's taken the name and moved ter 'ighgarden. Yer know, I'm glad. Glad he doesn' have to see this shit.”

“Shit like _that!_ ” The other Watchman suddenly reached forwards and dragged his friend away from the edge as a veil of silver scales erupted from the other side. A creature that was certainly _not_ a bird scraped its sprawling wings along the cusp of ice.

“Aye man! Fuckin' dragons! Fuckin' _dragons!!!”_

There was only the one dragon but its vast size dwarfed the Watchmen as they cowered over each other. _Silverwing_ latched onto _The Wall_ with her talons and came to a perch, flapping her wings several times amid a desperate flurry of snow before she folded them back and surveyed _The Wall_.

They gripped each other, a mess of fur and fear, while _Silverwing_ tilted her enormous head to the side and focused a swollen blue eye in their direction.

*~*~*

“No – no...” Thorne drew his men back with whispers. The entirety of The Watch had gathered either on _The Wall_ or beneath it . Thorne was closest, moving carefully so as not to startle the beast. They were not the mythical creatures of Lord's nightmares – they were animals, somewhere between a horse and a wolf. “I know who you are...” he whispered to it, lowering his body so that appeared submissive. “Been reading stories about your kind, aye, Silverwing...?”

It blinked at the sound of its name, re-shuffling its claws in the ice. The dragon had pale scales – translucent like the fur of white bears. Hers had ice sticking between them, corrupting their edges. As she lifted her feet, vibrations moved along the wall.

“Easy...” he cooed. “Were not going to hurt you.” Even though some of his men clasped their swords as though they were life itself. There was no point against a dragon. Their armour was thicker than stone and their jaws lined with a thousand swords. “It's wild,” he explained, to the men close enough to hear. “She used to be ridden by a Targaryen queen in the last great war. Her jewels built _Deep Lake_.” The archives were full of stories from Queen Alysanne. “The dragon knows us and this wall. Move slowly. Leave her be...”

Eventually Silverwing tired of _The Wall_ and launched herself into the air, leaving deep grooves in the ice where her claws had been. She headed North, towards _The Lands of Always Winter_ and the bank of fog which had gathered in prelude to the night.

*~*~*

Beneath _The Wall,_ at the edge of the forest, Dacey Mormont stopped. Cruising down the flank of ice beside _Castle Black's_ gate was a silver dragon. Nearing the ground, it beat its wings and curved upwards, clearing the trees. Certain it was a dream, she collapsed against the trunk of a pine. It wreaked of age and stank of magic. Was this her tomb? A tree beside the wall and patch of ice... No. She'd rise again with dead eyes, forever walking the world. _Do not die here_. _Die where there are men to burn you. Fires in the ice. Die there._

Dacey looked again and this time she saw white trails of smoke atop _The Wall_ and the black dots of watchers manning the towers.

###  ** FAIRMARKET – RIVERLANDS **

The bulk of the Lannister army camped around the flats surrounding _Fairmarket,_ turning the grass fields gold. It soon ended in slick mud, drowning men to the knee and felling horses that tried to drink from the _Trident_. Unseasonal cold struck the reeds a dead grey while wrens that made their nests hastily folded the waxen threads around themselves.

A bored army was the most dangerous of beasts. Months of siege with no blood to show for it had left Jaime Lannister with a mob who ebbed toward _Fairmarket_ with an eye for whores and drink. He tried to control them, sending accompaniments of captains with the soldiers but he might as well have sent the wolf in to mind the deer.

“We cannot stay here,” Jaime sighed, nudging Bronn awake. He'd dozed off in the sunlight, using his armour to collect the warmth. “You great, lazy lizard...”

“Least I'm not fookin' my way through the town,” he replied. “Those other cunts have the right idea. 'alf my luck to be stuck 'ere with you.”

Jaime's weary facade of 'patience' was wearing thin. His eyebrows, which had no right to own as much of his forehead as they did, dipped low. “You're doing all right... I could have left you in King's Landing.”

“Could 'ave,” Bronn sat up and dusted dried grass from his chest. “Yer didn't though. Must be my company yer were after.”

It was but after all these weeks Jaime was starting to question the wisdom of his choice. “It's a fair ride ahead yet.”

“I'm still not _quite_ sure I understand what we're doin' here... Way I look at it – Northern folk are rough bastards. Loyal to their own – unless yer name is 'Bolton' then you're good as snow. If we ride in, done up in all our shining lion cloaks they'll remember your nephew killed their Lord and carve us to pieces.”

“We _greatly_ outnumber their forces.”

“Fine. We slaughter them all then what – sit in an empty castle and wait for Winter? Madness.”

Jaime remembered the last time he was in _Winterfell_. The North had a different feel about its bones. There were things living in the woods and snow that haunted the dreams of their men. Most of them, Jaime realised, were probably true. He didn't want to murder the armies of the North any more than Bronn but it was a command of the Crown.

*~*~*

Skirting around the edge of the camp, a pack of wolves waited in the shadows. They had been tracking the army – staying behind their scent. Sooner or later, a feast of blood would follow – all the wolves had to do was keep their distance. Their leader pawed at the loose earth, digging a shallow where she laid her enormous body. Her grey fur shivered in waves as the cool wind passed into the forest. Nymeria dreamed of glistening pools and strange, pale mountains. Of yellow dirt and tiny fires in the darkness.

 


	63. Two Sides of the Same Coin

 

###  **FAIRMARK – RIVERLANDS**

He remembered the surface of the _Trident_ as a sheet of twitching velvet lounging in the failing light, shifting between muted pastels while mist gathered in the reeds. The ghostly silhouette of _The Twins_ stained the waters which ran brown with murdered corpses. They bobbed on the surface, eyed keenly by wolves tracking along the bank. Crows shadowed above. Stark bones and vengeful gods stalked close, cursing the air. Caught between the river stones in the shallows was an elegant dagger. Silver, ornate carvings of wrestling dragons danced around the handle. The play thing of a high lord.

The man fumbled the blade, deep in his leathers. It was worth more than anything he'd ever owned and yet the opportunity to sell passed several times. Even starving and wretched he kept the item close. There was something within the grey steel that called to his soul. A song, perhaps.

Above, the forest circling _Fairmark_ rustled. Leaves, dry from the cold became brittle and abrasive, knocking their kin free in a shower of carcases. They tumbled out over the grass, racing each other toward the Lannister tents which were held up by strong coils of black rope. Soldiers were lighting lanterns in preparation of night, creating a bed of false stars.

There was worse waiting in these forests than wolves.

A broken man with his soul dragging in the pine needles limped up to the edge of the rise where the pines ended in a sharp line. He kept out of the sunlight, looking down over the gently rolled fields that cascaded into the freezing _Trident_ river and the modest settlement of _Fairmark_ along its shore. Flanked on all sides by the Lannister army, the town had no means of preventing the constant stream of soldiers that flowed like molten tracks of steel into its heart. Like an artery, they pumped through the collapsing brothels, leaving piles of coin but not enough to pay for the damage of their presence in the hills.

He waited for evening. Men, drunk beyond their means, stumbled up toward the forest to piss. They forgot the danger and turned their backs on the fires from the camp, entering the thread of darkness beneath the swaying branches.

Amidst the scratch of needles, a hand surged out and grabbed a soldier by the throat, pulling him into the thick of the forest. Struggling, the soldier lashed out with uncoordinated blows that were as useless as the slap of a fish's tail against the mud.

Sandor Clegane took the man's throat in both his hands and crushed down on the wind pipe. The fight faded and soon rebellion became a sad twitch of fingers. When the soldier was good and tame, Sandor thrust him against a tree and wrapped an old bit of rope around to hold him there. In the pitch, he slapped the soldier across the face, startling him awake.

Terrified, the white's of the soldier's eyes glistened. He was young and soft, a child of some minor lord who still believed that there was glory to be found in other people's wars. “Please. Please... Don't kill me. Please... I uh – there's gold.” He jostled his leg to demonstrate the sound of coin somewhere in his boot.

“Well – thanks...” Sandor replied, slightly amused. “I wasn' going to rob you but since you offered.” He shuffled the man's boot off and took the small purse weighted down with Lannister gold. “Stop whining or I will change my mind,” he added, when the frightened boy's whimpering started to grate. Sandor was used to people taking fright at him. Half his face was withered, smooth flesh and the rest was scared from his brother's entertainment. “Whose army is that?”

“L-L-Lannister...” he trembled.

“I know that. Bloody gold cloaks you moron. Lion banners the size of fucking carts.” He tugged sharply on the soldier's cloak to make the point. All it did was elicit another shriek. “ _Which_ Lannister?”

“King's Guard. Jaime Lannister.”

It took a good half an hour to determine the state of the kingdom since he'd left _King's Landing_. If even half was truth the realm had more to worry about than a few marauding armies. As terrible as Cersei's influence was over the young kings, a single-minded religious order was worse. He'd rather have that fuck Geoffrey back. At least he could snap the bugger in half. The realm be damned... There was only one piece of information that interested Clegane. “You're sure she's in the North?” he asked again, not entirely trusting the inebriated ramblings.

“Winterfell. Yes. They call her the wolf queen... We're on our way there now to bring her to kneel along with the bastard Snow. I told you what you wanted. Please... I don't want to die out here. Ser... Oh _ser_ by the Seven...”

“I'm not going to kill you,” Sandor pushed the man away as he stood up. Creatures shuffled about in the undergrowth nearby. Waiting. “They might...” he nodded at the wolves.

The soldier caught their red eyes creeping in. “Oh – gods no...” The soldier wrested against the rope and dragged his feet through the dirt. He could almost feel their fangs tearing his flesh away while he slowly died – his innards adorning the woods. “I _know_ the North. Let me take you to Winterfell. I can keep you off the King's Road, away from patrols. I'm more a prisoner here than soldier as it is... I'm a Hornwood – sent to fight in the Lannister ranks as punishment for supporting the North. They hope I will die on the front line and our line die out but-”

“I don't give two fucks which way who you are...” Sandor stopped he man from prattling. He grabbed onto the knot holding the rope in place. “If I find out you're lying about knowing the North – or you try and run, they'll find pieces of you from here to The Wall. Not even your gods will recognise you.”

###  **RUINS OF VALYRIA – THE SMOKING SEA**

_Their eyes stared out from the stone. Cold. Dead. Each pair made of jewels. Peal, jade, tourmaline, onyx, topaz, opal and amethyst. The figures lingered like spectres, towering above with inhuman scale. Gods, made real in rock. The last was caught in an odd pose – stooping to clutch her stomach. Folds of stone fabric swelled around her arms and ankles. Embedded in her torso was the handle of a knife, the rest hidden in rocky flesh. Like the old white trees, the statue began to bleed sap. Sticky and thick, it dripped onto the ground causing the reverie to tremble._

_Daario stumbled backwards. Mist rose up from the ground like a swamp. The wall with the statues stood alone in a voracious forest. Vines dipped in purple thorns strangled the formations while heavy leaves dropped water leaving them with a shine like river stones._

_He bowed. Cowering in their presence as a maester to the library. The stone beneath the mist where his hands laid was an all-consuming absence. Blacker than the sky – slippery yet dry, he retreated from its vile surface._

_Daario could not move. The bloodstone had moulded to his palms, growing him into the stone. It wrapped around his legs and spread tentacles toward his torso. Their weight was crushing. He felt his body snapping... Becoming like the others..._

Daario gasped.

He'd been asleep on the ruin, lazing in the dying light while the pirates raided the _Valyrian_ weaponry building when the mists from the forest surrounding them had crept over. It was putrid. Daario was forced to stand to escape the poison only stonemen could breathe.

Quaithe was watching him intently. He wondered how long she'd been perched on the twisted mess of granite.

“You have bad dreams,” she said, when he crossed the awkwardly sloped ruin to meet her.

“Recently, yes,” he admitted.

“I feel these dreams are not yours to have,” Quaithe added cryptically, as a breeze sent the segments of her mask rustling together. “You say her name. _Daenerys. Daenerys. Daenerys..._ ” Each time more desperate than the last. “Why do you call the queen's name?”

He was taken aback. “I don't know... My dreams are not of her.”

They were interrupted by a sharp whistle. One of the pirate captains emerged from the building with the last crate. “That's all she'll hold,” he nodded at the boats now laying low on their water lines. “There's more down there than any empire could want. We come back later if we need to.”

Daario nodded and the men trailed back towards their boats. “No one will steal it from us while ever it lies in these waters... There must be unimaginable treasures buried here...”

“I'm sure your fleet of miscreants are lingering on similar thoughts,” Quaithe took one last look into the innards of the great, fallen building. “The gods of this place will stir if they return too often.”

“Don't worry – I have no intention of coming back here,” he assured her. “Westeros is where the queen is. She needs my sword more than forgotten trinkets.”

Quaithe could not stop herself from leaning forward, casting her eyes of Daario. He was pale, drenched in sweat and restless. She'd thought at first he'd been poisoned a week ago but there was nothing she knew of that could sustain itself this long. Gradually, his condition was worsening – as were the dreams. She heard him wake with screams near every night while they were on the water.

“Do you see anything else in your dreams?” She asked, meandering toward the boat with him.

“A room, mostly, with walls embroidered in flameless dragons.”

A shiver drifted over Quaithe. “...is there anything else in the room?”

“Uh... These tentacle things, like off a squid, wrapped around a throne. They move and fight with each other. Why?” His suspicion deepened. “Do you know this room? Quaithe...”

She would not answer.

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

Jon's horse trotted, breaking a layer of ice with its hooves. There were plenty more beneath, each a deeper shade of blue. Somewhere, half a dozen feet below, laid the remains of a lake and all its fish corpses locked in death, knocking against the ice. A thousand yellow eyes, unblinking like the sun and in their depths – night's abyss. Never sleeping. Never waking.

The snow was heavy, catching in Jon's eyes as he rode out to meet the approaching party. The men displaying Reed banners had cleared the forest and were now halfway across the flat toward the castle. No doubt they'd noted the pyres burning on every edge and the terrible mess of burned rock that sat in the centre. _Winterfell_ was a ruin. There was no hiding the precarious nature of their hold. Jon hoped only that these men took heed of the knights of the _Vale_ loitering around the walls.

When the distance closed, Jon realised that the party was unusually small, led by Lord Howland Reed himself. Jon remembered him younger, from his frequent visits at the banquet hall when he'd sit by Eddard and the pair would make merry until the women threw them out into the cold. There they'd sit and gabble on about all manner of thing with accents thicker than a Wildling's beard.

The intervening years had not been kind...

Forced to fight for Bolton or risk annihilation from the Crown, Howland had stalled and starved his forces away from conflict. In private, the Stark banners were draped inside their rooms while their ravens carried strategic secrets on their wings, helping Robb then The Blackfish to dance around the Lannister forces.

Now, he pulled his horse to a stop. It was speckled grey like him, pawing the frozen ground while Jon came up beside. Reed said nothing for several minutes as he took in the sight of the Stark bastard riding proud from his father's home. He didn't look much like Ned but by all the gods he was a Stark. That much had kept him alive all these years. No. Jon was exactly like his mother.

“I've heard stories of you, boy...” Reed said, as way of introduction. “Stories that drift to every corner of the realm. Good enough for the lips of kings.”

“I'm sure they are widely inaccurate by the time they reach a king's ear, my Lord.” Jon replied, fearful though he meant to be strong. He could face an army of the undead but his father's friend rattled his bones. This man _knew_ him. There was power in watching someone grow that could never be undone by a title.

“I think not,” he nodded at the _Vale's_ soldiers, “for they are here and so are you.” He noticed that the boy was still wary. “I come to re-pledge support of our house, for never was it truly broken.” His words came with great clouds of mist. Even his men could barely keep their banners up.

“How do I know you are not here for the Lannisters?” Jon asked, as his horse bucked slightly beneath him. Its black eyes were on the wood.

Reed took no offence. Jon was young to ruling and had more enemies than most. “Because I have brought a gift,” he replied, “and something else. Your father – he made me swear – that if he died first and you lived, I was to tell you something. I've come all this way, Jon Snow of Winterfell, to talk about your mother.”

*~*~*

The gift came first.

Sansa and Jon were struck motionless before the chest. It was featureless, roughly made of cheap steel and strapped together with plain leather holds. This was deliberate. Hiding Eddard Stark's remains from the Crown had cost several good men their lives and left a smear of blood over the land. Smuggled out of the battlefield following the _Red Wedding_ , the chest was literally dragged through the mud, loaded onto a river boat and taken to _Grey Water Watch_ where it laid buried beneath a sapling. Even now dirt persisted in the latches, soiling their gloves where they'd carried it into the crypts.

“I'd have come sooner,” Reed added.

They were assembled before the empty stone sarcophagus where Eddard was to lay. Before Robb lost the war, preparations had been made for the fallen lord but they were never finished. What lost hope there'd been for Eddard, there was none at all for Robb. He would be forever cursed to blow as ash across _The Twins._ A wolf in the winds.

Sansa stepped forward. “Can I look?” she asked, placing her gloved hand reverently atop the chest.

Reed shifted uncomfortably. “My Lady, I'd advise you not to... It's quite distressing-”

“Let me assure you,” she interrupted, allowing her fingertips to slid over the metal bracings, “there is nothing in this box that can hurt me. I was there – did you know? When his head was taken off. Later, I was dragged to the castle wall and made to stand beneath the dripping head, mounted on a spike for the King's pleasure. Tell me – how could this hurt me?”

Reed dipped his head in apology. “I apologise, Lady Sansa. Of course you may look. Let me...” He took a key from the inside of his tunic, slid it into the fragile veneer of steel and unlocked the chest. Standing behind it, he lifted the lid for both of them before standing back in the shadows where the torches burned and the wet walls shone with ice-melt.

Sansa was gripped by an odd detachment. They were bones. Greying pieces of a corpse whose flesh had been boiled off. In no particular order, they floated as an ocean with only the skull, rolled onto its side, recognisable as human. Wherever her father had gone, he was not to be found nesting in this box. With a faint nod she stepped away allowing Jon a moment.

When Jon thought of bones he saw them rising out of the snow – pulling themselves back together and marching on the living. Corpses. The barest fragments of people. It was all the same to the creature leading the armies of the undead. Part of him wanted to take a rock to his father's bones and smash them into fragments so that they'd never rise again. The other side of his soul wanted to wretch with desperation. _There lay his father. His only connection to the world._

Howland Reed closed the lid carefully, closing the latches. “It is as you see, your father. I've brought him to be laid at rest in the crypts with the Kings of Winter before him, as is right and lawful.” Howland's voice carried the old inflection – a deeper tone and sharper edge that gave his words a weight the new kings could not match.

“It was very kind of you to do this thing,” Jon said, as he helped Reed lift the chest into the coffin. Sansa laid a steel sword over the box. Together, they struggled with the cap stone, heaving it in place with a storm of pulverised rock.

“Terrible events have come to pass since your father died. I've – had to do some things... Well Ned would surely have had my head for and right that he should. I'd offer it to you now if I thought it could pay the debt to the souls no longer with us.”

“Forgotten,” Jon assured him quickly. “Be a lie to pretend we'd all kept our honour.” An uneasy quiet settled between them, as if Howland was entirely lost. “You – said you had news about my mother?” Jon prompted.

Sansa startled at this. Perhaps there was some shred of hurt left inside her, fed by her mother, for the woman Eddard Stark had sired Jon with. “Would you like me to leave?” she asked, realising that this might be something Jon wished to hear alone.

“No – no _stay_...” Jon reached out to grip Sansa by the wrist. A moment later their hands slid into each other's and they turned to Reed. “I'm ready.”

Reed wasn't. “It was never meant to be me that tells you this. Gods damn Ned...” Part of Reed would always hate him for this burden. “Before I talk about your mother, I must tell you two things. Prepare yourself boy.”

Jon felt Sansa tighten her grip on him.

“Eddard Stark is _not_ your father...”

Expressionless, Jon did not flinch. Part of him had suspected, deep in his gut. It was his greatest fear. Now it'd been laid bare and he believed it. If he was not Eddard's son, then his siblings... Too much. He had to remain calm. “And?” Was all his shaking voice managed.

“And you are _not_ a bastard.”

He had no idea how to process either of those facts. “You said that I was a Stark...”

“My dear boy, you _are_ a Stark. You have your mother's blood and by all the gods, she was the best of us – the few short years that we had her.” Reed could see Jon's mind spinning over – inching closer to the truth on his own. “Your mother was Lyanna Stark – Ned's sister.”

“What...” It was Sansa who whispered. “How can that be?” She asked, even though Jon bore a striking resemblance to the portrait Robert Baratheon had commissioned which hung in the palace at _King's Landing._ Sansa used to find herself seeking refuge there with the ghosts of her house. “She was so young...”

_A true born Stark._

“Lyanna died bringing you into the world,” Reed continued. “I was there – standing at the base of the tower when Ned came out, covered in your mother's blood with you in his arms. He promised to keep you safe – that meant lying to everyone – most of all _you_. It was the only way.”

“Why would anyone want to kill Lyanna's – my _mother's_ – child?”

Reed lifted his hand to Sansa. “She knows...”

“Sansa...”

“It was something Lord Baelish said, when he brought me into the crypts. We were parting company before my union with Ramsey. He took me over to Lyanna's statue and we talked about the realm – how it had been thrown into chaos for the love of my aunt.

“It was Robert that loved her first. His was an obsessive, worshipping adoration grounded in lust. He loved the _idea_ of my aunt. There was a famous tourney at Harrenhall where Lyanna met the then Targaryen prince – eldest son of the Mad King. He was already married of course to the Martell girl but he rode right by her and crowned Lyanna 'Queen of Love and Beauty'. It was a terrible insult to his wife and Robert – who took exception to the gesture.

“Shortly after that, Lyanna was kidnapped by prince Rhaegar – furious, Robert dragged the realm into war. You know how the rest of the story goes.”

Jon was not quite understanding. “Are you saying that I'm Robert's son?” He asked, feeling his chest clench. He had the notorious black hair as the king.

Reed took over. “No, my boy. You are Rhaegar's son – heir to the Iron Throne of Westeros.” Then, Reed sank to his knees in front of Jon. “My Lord, you are a Targaryen  _king_ . Your aunt has landed in Dorne with an army and dragons to conquer the throne. I urge you to ally together. She has dragons. You have the birthright. Eddard was your uncle – he wanted you to  _live_ . So live.”

Sansa's mind had already begun to fill with plots. The pieces of the realm tumbled about – wars that never would be, marriages that might – kings and crowns... She was more like Petyr than she'd ever admit. “Marriage...” The two men turned. “The Dragon Queen has fought for the throne her whole life, she'll give it up.”

“I don't want a throne-”

“Quiet!” Sansa shushed Jon. “What either of us want stopped mattering a long time ago. She needs your claim and her dragons would be very useful in the coming war. We must write to her, before someone else does.”

Reed was cautious. “She's just as like to send assassins...”

“She's alone in the world. Nobody wants to be the last of their name.” Sansa took both her brother's hands. No, not brother. Cousin. “Listen to me. You'll always be a Stark and Winterfell is your home. If we are to live you must first go South and befriend this Queen.”

“You want me to marry my aunt?” Jon was already shaking his head. “What about the men heading to The Wall?”

“They don't need you yet and when they do, all the better if you arrive with dragons at your back.”

Jon lifted his hand, delicately laying it against Sansa's porcelain cheek. “You are the true heir of Winterfell...”

“I will be its guardian. You can be its hope. And what about you?” Sansa asked Howland Reed. “What is it you want? Surely you did not come all this way to deliver a message.”

“No, Your Grace. I wish to join your men heading for The Wall. My children are up there, somewhere. I've nothing left but to find them.”

Sansa nodded. “They are most like already dead...”

“I know,” he replied, clutching his hands softly in front of his aging body. “And I shall whisper to their spirits if that is all I find.”

“If that is your wish, I appoint you as my ambassador to the Night's Watch. I have a message for them.”

“Before you head South,” Reed added, unsure how to say what he must, “there is something you will need.”

*~*~*

Jon lifted the mace, balancing it on his shoulder while he lined up his stroke. He tried not to meditate on the featureless eyes of the statue. The cold stone that stood as a ghost in the crypts. His mother. Now that he knew he recognised his features in hers. She was younger than him and yet her life was already done.

It made sense to hide them here. Robert may have spend many years lamenting before the statue but he'd never have the heart to destroy it.

“I'm sorry...” he whispered, then swung the steel. The statue shattered violently, cleaving into chunks that scattered over the floor. It was hollow, exactly as Howland had said, and inside were three items. The broken form of Rhaegar's harp. A scroll from the citadel confirming the marriage and another announcing the birth of a child. Jon read his true name and decided he preferred the one Ned gave him. _Jaehaerys_ was no good for the North.

 


	64. Murder, Gold and Scale

 

###  **THE RED MOUNTAINS – DORNE**

“Was there ever a moment, in all those years – that you considered it?”

Daenerys' eyes lifted slowly to her guardian. The faithful knight; martyr of love, honour and redemption, had fixed her with a curious gaze which lingered. Behind, the desert shifted unnaturally, disturbed by a wayward brush of wind from the coast. Storms dragged across _The Narrow Sea_ bringing with them tides of blood. She cold almost feel them lapping at her hair while she lay upon the beach pinned by fallen swords. Jorah sensed them too. He had an ear for the distant rumble of death.

The dragon had taken them as far as _The Red Mountains_ where the forests ended in the high lands behind leaving them to wander through the valley where crimson sand collected in a silent pool. _Drogon's_ shadow crossed overhead occasionally as he hunted the skies, picking off eagles. Jorah had fashioned a leather strap for _Dawn_ which, even sitting high on his spine, threatened to kiss the sand at his heels. Its jewelled hilt glistened in challenge of the sun. Time stepped on.

“I was never in a position to consider anything. From the start – the day I was born – I was the plaything of other peoples' dreams.” There was a hiss of venom in her words.

“My Queen, you are mistaken,” Jorah slowed his pace to fall into step beside her. The loose red dirt filled their shoes as they pressed toward the valley mouth and the wider desert beyond. “There have been many times where you had the opportunity to wander a different path. You could have conspired with your brother, killed your husband and made off with the Dothraki riches. Raped the world at your horse lord's side and lived the comfortable life of a Khaleesi. Died between the dunes in the Red Waste. Married your merchant in Qarth and revelled in his honey-lies. Sold your dragon eggs and lived quietly in Lys with your kin... All of these were choices, Khaleesi and you made them, sure as we head to war in Westeros.”

“You'd see me become a recluse, tucked safely away on an island at the edge of the world?”

“Hardly the edge, Your Grace,” he replied, with a patient smile. “If you saw Lys you might look upon it with more kindness but yes, there were days I'd much prefer to see you safe.” Just as he meditated fondly on the frozen pines of his home. “This dream we walk now is fragile. A breath in the wrong direction might set it ablaze. When the black smoke fills our lungs and we find ourselves beneath the executioner's blade -”

Daenerys turned on him, grasping at the strap across his chest. The sudden force brought them both to a stop. “I know what you are doing,” she whispered, pushing him firmly without letting go. He stumbled. “You are thinking that is this the last time there will be a choice. The final bridge. If I march on the capital there can be no going back. We win or we die – here in the West. The song of the 'would be queen' dances with Death like the rest of the Targaryens and all their spurned prayers.”

Silently, Jorah dipped his head in a single nod.

“We are the playthings of the gods,” she stepped closer, sliding her tiny pale hand up the leather to his shoulder where it settled tenderly. “Those choices were stolen.”

Jorah raised his calloused, cloth-bound hand, placing it over hers. “There are always choices. Say the word.”

“I have thought often of the words you said in Qarth. You were right.” Daenerys had not been a queen in her heart until that moment.

Daenerys slid his hand off her shoulder and kept a hold of it while they walked. It was the first time she had allowed anyone to walk hand in hand with her. Out here, cradled by stark protrusions of rock, was as close to 'freedom' as a royal could find.

“Are you still planning to take up residence in Dragonstone?”

“King's Landing holds unpleasant memories...” She replied, leaving out the recurring vision of it twisted amid a storm of ash. “Dragonstone is better suited for our purpose. The West can only be dismantled from an impenetrable fortress. King's Landing, as we are about to prove, is a snowflake in the Summer sun.”

###  **KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS**

Olenna stared impassively at the blood soaking through the sheets. Pycelle died slowly, tearing at life with his fingernails – twisting and retching, gurgling pleas to gods he thought false. His eyes were pale in the moonlight, rendered almost clear by the time his breaths had stopped. Finally, his hand fell down to the bedding.

He was half-dressed in his robes with the maester's chain laid on the floor where it had fallen in the struggle. Olenna picked it up and slowly wrapped it around his neck like a noose. Her own, ailing limbs protested as she wrestled Pycelle's legs onto the bed. The dagger was retrieved – wiped clean on the sheets and then returned to the folds of Olenna's dress.

“You mad bastard...” She hissed at the corpse.

Olenna wondered if Pycelle grasped what he had done. The barrels of Wildfire beneath the city were an abstract concept, lurking in the dark with the other shadows. He probably never paused to imagine what might happen if their fuse was lit. Perhaps he doubted the strength of Cersei's will. That was always a mistake. Madness and power, both born out of lust and inferiority. With two children already cold in the ground, Cersei's mind had become a vessel for the Mad King's soul. She could almost see glimpses of his ghost on the throne – his claws dragging against the castle walls like a caged dragon.

Pycelle was not going to be enough. That undead abomination of Cersei's had to be surgically removed from her side before any more moves could be made. Olenna knew her limits. The creature would have to wait.

She retraced her steps, shuffling through the moonlit hallways. Every now and then an archway opened up and a front of salt air hit her face. Olenna tried to remember the gardens of her home – the sprawling walls of flowers and fruit. There were pale trees so immense and old that their limbs held the castle up while their red foliage rustled against the stone like whispers. She'd never walk those gardens again.

Within a breath, Olenna had sunk into a shadow. Another restless soul strolled ahead. They approached steadily, creeping forward into a shard of moonlight. Olenna pressed closer to the stone. _Cersei_. Draped in black with a goblet of wine threatening to tip from her hand. Maybe she could just... Olenna's hand tightened on the knife.

Cersei paused at one of the archways. She turned, setting her cup on the stone with a _'clink'_. The city lay before her and while the King saw his subjects, Cersei smirked at the thought of their screams.

“Bit late, to be prowling the castle...”

Before Cersei turned, she took another gulp of wine. It made her lips glisten. “I could have sworn I glanced at arrangements for your funeral in the Sept. A quiet affair, I believe. Frugal.”

Olenna accentuated her limp, making sure to lean against the wall. “That _is_ comforting,” she replied calmly. “I was never one for surprises.”

Cersei's patience evaporated as quickly as her sanity. She reeled on Olenna, fixing her with cold, dead eyes. “Why are you here?”

“I am very old and close to night's breath,” Olenna replied, a touch of sincerity in her voice. “I prefer not to sleep. Why tempt the gods? They only fill our dreams with whispers and terrors. That is why you choose wine over sleep... I have often wondered, do you see your children there?”

“Do not attempt to know me,” Cersei hissed darkly. “No one can ever know me.”

“Your brother does a good job of it – not the little one,” Olenna quickly amended. “He's scattered with the wind. Rumour has that those winds fill a dragon's wings...”

“I have heard those rumours too,” Cersei admitted. Her little brother, tagging along as some kind of pet. Was he so treacherous to the family name? She'd never thought that he had it in him, to defy their family. Then he killed their father. “If I find that you have been in contact with my traitorous sibling-”

Olenna lifted her hand calmly. “As you well know, I cannot even steal a letter to my kin. The Sparrow has more wings than any of us. Perhaps you should ask him?” It had been her intention to leave with that bitter-sweet scowl on her lips but she found herself brought to pause, close enough to see an edge of water catch the moonlight in Cersei's eyes. “If I believe one truth of you, it is that you love your children. By the gods in all their high towers, you may have been the only soul to love Geoffrey but Mycella... All accounts were that she had the best of her parents. Tommen too. If he's allowed to live he may yet rule a prosperous kingdom. Neither one us, with all our rage, can protect our children while the High Sparrow holds the heart strings. The Iron Bank is locking your purse and very soon we'll be snuffed. Come find me when you're ready to talk.”

With that, Olenna left Cersei in possession of the hall. She proceeded directly to the small courtyard with a single Autumn Rose wrapped around a broken gate. There, beneath the third tile, was a coded note from _Winterfell_.

*~*~*

Tommen had always known. Before she sailed for Dorne, Mycella had pulled him into an alcove beneath the _Red Keep_ where the water wore away a series of tunnels in the edge of the city. There, where molluscs had conquered the stone, she whispered in his ear. It made him think to the Targaryens and their incestuous rule. There were great kings born of such distasteful acts as well as mad ones.

_'You might be a good king – if you were older.'_ The old Tyrell's words haunted him.  _If_ . It was as though his die were cast and his rule decided.  _If._ His reign a pending failure before he had a chance to fit the crown.

The Tyrells were powerful and he was married to their future. Perhaps there was another  _'if'_ available to him.  _If he could save Margaery, he'd have Tyrell support._ He might not be able to claim a king as a father but his grandfather was undoubtedly the most powerful man in the realm. He spent his time among the dust of books and on the fields of war. Tommen was too young for a sword but he could read well enough. To free his wife he'd have to catch a bird. In the drapes of night, he turned away from his quarters and instead took the spiral steps to the cold stone rooms at the top of the tower where the ravens were kept. Their stench and screeching filled the night. Black chaos enveloped the room beyond the bars. Feathers escaped, wafting into the air around Tommen. He reached out, letting one of them rest on his arm.

Birds were hungry. They crushed each other under its pangs. A scrap of bread caused a riot.

Tommen smirked, touching one of the beaks protruding from the bars. What was he but a scrap of bread for the mob? The beak cut through his thumb, splashing fresh blood over the stone. Tommen felt nothing.

###  **THE RED MOUNTAINS – DORNE**

Jorah was beginning to wonder if _Drogon_ had any intention of returning to them before the day finished. He couldn't pick the creature out from the deep shadows in the cliff but those eyes were on him somewhere. _Drogon_ was most fond of the violent outbursts of rock, digging his claws into the softer folds of shale.

Daenerys roamed in front of Jorah, head tilted to the sky where she watched a sudden shower of shooting stars trail across the blue with long, fiery tails. The travelled East to West, dying somewhere beyond the mountains with a soft thunder. Their master – the dragon of the sky – a comet that had haunted them in _The Red Waste,_ hung somewhere out there beyond their view.

“Careful, Khaleesi...” Jorah called, when she roamed too far ahead. She spiralled in response, causing the sand to swirl at her feet. He was reminded of the sword on his back. It was significantly lighter than true steel, weighed down by its jewels rather than blade. He noticed pieces of its milk-like stone scattered on the ground around them – remnants of another fallen star. _Dawn_ was home amongst its brethren. Jorah wondered if it was forged here too.

Daenerys let him catch up to her – stretching out her hand for him to take. She was caught by a gasp of freedom, empowered by the heat. Like her dragon, she revelled in the sun. Words from some forgotten song sprang from her lips as she dragged Jorah from his stride into a wayward dance. He considered protesting but her joy won out. When both their hands were entwined and the world a blur behind, he risked a smile. Daenerys was half-mad.

“Finally, you laugh!” She grinned, spinning them faster.

It took Jorah another moment to recognise this as a Westerosi dance that she must have learned with Illyrio. He had not danced it since his wedding feast with all the lords and ladies staring down their goblets at the unlikely match. An impoverished Northern lord and the wealthiest woman in the realm.

“Where are you?” Daenerys asked, when she noticed her knight staring directly through her. “North...” she guessed. “Back in the snow drifts?”

“No, indeed,” he replied, sliding his hand down to her hip as their dance progressed. They had only the wind as their song and the crush of sand to keep pace. “This song – it is popular in the wedding feasts of Westeros.”

“I know,” she replied. “That's where I learned. In Pentos, it was one of our duties, hiding in plain sight among the great balls. Viserys used to braid lemon leaves through my hair instead of blossoms.”

“He always was odd...”

Daenerys arched her eyebrow. “He thought we would be king and queen, riding into Westeros on white horses to the sound of cheering crowds. When I ride into King's Landing it will be on the back of a dragon with flame and smoke blocking out the sun.”

That gave Jorah pause. He was no friend of the capital but a great many people were about to die by their hand. Instead of dealing with the reality, he pulled her closer until their cheeks brushed and his hand splayed across her back.

“Dear Ser...” Daenerys murmured, rubbing her face gently against his. “I do not believe this is part of the dance.”

“Dorne was never one for rules,” he replied, dipping his head to place a fleeting kiss on her cheek. His free hand traced the bracelet on her wrist given to her by the Dornish prince. Promised in marriage and yet, when they were alone, he was sure that...

Jorah's thoughts were lost as her lips stole his. Her hand ran through his salt-stained hair, dislodging ash from _Starfall_. His lips parted, giving way to her as she began to melt against him. They were not dancing any more. Daenerys was exploring a scar along his neck, memorising it with her fingertips as they traced the flesh to his shoulder where his shirt began.

Daenerys groaned when he pressed against her stab wound, breaking contact with his lips for a moment. The pain and pleasure danced as they had, merging into something that swelled in the pit of her stomach. She shifted, taking his lips again in one of their more possessive kisses. Eyes closed, tongues circling, they failed to notice another wind from the East.

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

_The beast stood in the centre of the crypt, drinking from the pool of smoking water. As it dipped low, its antlers grazed the surface of the water._

_'Why do you haunt me?' Melisandre asked the vision, as it began to fade._

“Which dead men haunt you?” Jon asked, stepping into the doorway.

Melisandre startled out of her dream to find the White Wolf in her room. He was dressed in travelling furs like a child in his father's clothes. “Stannis,” she replied, shifting closer to the fire. “He lies in the snow somewhere nearby. Restless kings make for dangerous spectres.” She could still see the great deer stepping back from the edge, its hooves on fire. “Are you finally heading South?”

Jon nodded. “Now. Where are your things?”

Melisandre showed no sign of leaving her chair. “I am staying here.”

“We agreed. Your skills are needed at The Wall.”

She was shaking her head. “I am no good for kings,” Melisandre replied.

“You are no good for anyone shrivelled up in this room. Besides, there are no kings where you are going. The men leave before the hour is over and you with them.”

Jon stole away from the room, nodding at a few of his men to make sure the witch was ready. _A Targaryen King_ , he kept thinking to himself. That way led to madness.

Two caravans readied themselves in the snow – one bound for _Castle Black_ , the other for _Dorne_. Jon paced roughly through the snow around the _Weirwood_. The face in the wood had changed form overnight. Its features were younger and its blood tears ran heavy, dripping down over knotted roots. He could not find any words to say to Eddard Stark's spirit. Instead of elation, Jon felt as though he'd had his father torn from him again as surely as the blade severed the great lord's head. _Uncle._ Father. Eddard had grown to be both just as Catelyn was his mother.

With no words, Jon unsheathed his sword and thrust it into the heart of the ghost tree with a scream that shook the leaves and all of _Winterfell_.

*~*~*

The red witch felt the ice crack on the lake beneath her horse. More than dead kings stirred in the North.

###  **A CAVE – BEYOND THE WALL**

Bran fell backwards, arms flailing as he hit the ice. He rummaged through his vest, feeling for the phantom blade. He mistook the snow melt for pools of blood and the crunch of bone for a carpet of leaves. Slowly, the cave came back into focus. He was alone, strewn over the nesting roots of a buried forest. _Weirwoods_ , grown into each other since time was time, had been shaped into an archway through which Bran dragged his broken body.

The ground was a cemetery where rats and men became a single layer in time. He could not say how long he'd dreamed. There were no days below the earth, no nights and no seasons to tell one year from the next. His thoughts were a scramble of raving Greenseers who eked out lives from within their wooden cells.

Leaf found him. Silently, she squatted on the bones ahead, tilting her head and enormous dark eyes curiously while Bran clawed at the dirt. He inched himself toward her.

“The trees won't have you,” said Leaf calmly.

Dirt pushed into his mouth. “Maybe, but they can't stop me from looking either.”

“The old raven is wrong about you,” Leaf continued. Her words felt cold but then again, she was very old. “Wolves and dragons see the world through opposing veils. He fears the ice creeping from the roof in silent daggers but you...” Leaf crawled forward, letting her digits sink into the death surrounding them. “You _like_ frozen, broken things.”

“Where is he?” Bran asked fearfully. Leaf had saved his life but her reasons were cloaked in fog. A part of him remembered the days of old when men and children warred.

“Sinking deeper into time,” Leaf replied. “Soon, the Three Eyed Raven will become like the others – a face in a tree, awash with visions he cannot share.”

Bran felt ice form in his veins. Suddenly the cave seemed smaller and the pale roots _closer_.

###  **ABANDONED WILDING CAMP – BEYOND THE WALL**

Pinnacles of black rock protruded from the permafrost, barely visible under layers of ice so thick their grey had become an ocean blue. They spiralled out from the centre of the city ruins in seven arms reaching all the way to a petrified forest. The skeletal remains of pine trees obscured the last few rocks but Cold Hands knew they were there. Patterns had power. Like magic, they littered the lands beyond _The Wall_.

These ruins were much younger than the rocks. The dead city sprawled in fragments – torn hides, black scars from a hundred fires – broken spears... At its heart lay the bleached, partially mummified corpse of an ice dragon. Tail to snout, three _Targaryen_ monsters could curl up with room to spare. He could hear the snow hit its ribcage in a type of dying song.

Backed by _The Frost Fangs_ , the name of the city was lost. Time literally froze within its shredded edges. Ancient runes had been scratched into the ice with bear blood leaving him to count at least four distinct types of magic washing restlessly over the site.

It was exactly as Mance described.

Cold Hands held back, lingering on the sheets of ice. Fog clung to the edges, building unnaturally. His blue eyes searched the landscape waiting for the army of undead. Whatever was buried here, it drew the dead and the living alike.

###  **THE RED MOUNTAINS – DORNE**

They fell against the entrance of the cave. Rock met flesh – fire against the relative ice in the shadows where flecks of quartz entombed streaks of fools gold. There were hundreds of caverns around the base of the mountains, each a chasm into the ancient river system long since sunken into the bedrock.

Neither of them noticed.

The Queen and her knight rolled along the nearest wall, fumbling in the darkness until a shower of sparks sprung from the handle of _Dawn_ as it hit the stone. Jorah pulled back as the last flare of light died between them. Silently, terrified of breaking the moment, Daenerys reached to the buckle on the leather strap. She worked fast, loosening the latch until together they lifted the holster and its sword over his head. Together they laid it on the cave floor. Freed, it was Jorah who led. With two steps forward, his queen, his _khaleesi_ was flush against the rock. In the half-light he watched her head tip back and lips part. Breaths passed. His thumb explored her lip, dipping into the warmth of her mouth for a moment.

_Fire made flesh._

He could feel something burning inside her that went beyond the magic of a woman.

“Are you going to kiss me – or stare at me, ser?”

_Both_ , thought Jorah but gave his answer as a crushing kissed that pressed her hard against the rock. He felt her moan into his mouth before she writhed, slipping through his fingers. Hers were at his shirt, peeling the material from his shoulders. He was back on her lips before she'd finished and the fabric was left to fall unnoticed.

His touches were reverent. Once, he might have imagined taking her as Drogo had – brash and unthinking but now that she was here he realised that she was a creature from the songs of myth. Mortals had no place in her affections and had he been a better man he might be able to lay his sword at her feet and ignore the aching of his heart.  _Not today_ .

Daenerys Stormborn. Mother of Dragons. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. Queen of Meereen, the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Breaker of Chains. Princess of Dragonstone. Jorah loved every version of her.

A gasp escaped her as Jorah's large hands cupped her upper thighs and lifted, sliding their naked chests together until her legs wrapped around his hips and she gave into the flame that had burned in her heart from the beginning.

###  **NIGHTFORT – THE NORTH**

They waited. Days passed into Winter since the banging on the _Black Gate_ had stopped. Edd and his men were left with silence filled only by the occasional creak of ice growing through stone.

“What der you think?” One of them asked, his accent roughed by years of incarceration.

Edd cast the flames from his torch in front of the _Weirwood_ exterior. “Whatever it was out there, it's either dead or waitin'. If it's dead there's nothin' to be done. If it's waitin' we ain't opening that door. What's your assessment of the fort?”

The man shook his head. “No good. Place been torn apart by ze ice. Falling to shreds. Tha' tower has a lean on it.”

“So it's all show and no fucking. Great.” Edd started along the hallway leading away from the _Black Gate_. “There's more?”

“Ay,” he nodded. “Raven came. Thar's a whole damn army on their wayz 'ere.”

Edd had mixed feelings about that. There was a certain comfort in great numbers but up here, in the ice and snow, they were all mouths to feed and corpses for crows. If they weren't prepared for the Winter they'd be blue-eyed ghosts before the week was out. “I hope they brought food 'cause there's fuck all here. What happened to Cub?”

“Up at the South tour clearin' ice from the lift.”

*~*~*

Cub dug his foot in between two black stones, anchoring himself to the fort's dilapidated wall while his body stretched across the heart stopping chasm between the _Night Fort_ and its lift. With one hand clinging onto a spike hammered into _The Wall_ , the other was free to wield a pick. Its curved blade dislodged a storm of white from the lift's mechanism with each blow. The impact echoed along the endless wall. A dull _thud, thud, thud..._

Abandoned for decades, the lift was used to ferry weaponry too dangerous for the famous staircase. It was built solid but the intervening years had left it partially consumed by the ravenous ice.

Suddenly, its base snapped free – groaning against heavy chains. Cub slipped, losing his footing on the fort. He lurched forward, gripping both the pick and the lift – which was swaying free. Stretched between the two, he looked down to the snow beneath. Pain branched between his arms. He had no choice but to release the pick. Cub screamed as his weight encouraged the lift's movement. With all his force, he dragged his flailing body onto the old wooden platform and ducked away from the rough surface of _The Wall_ as it crashed past.

“Fuckin ay, Cub!” One of the Night's Watch men applauded from the tower. “Thought you were dead that time.”

Cub rested his head against the chain. He closed his eyes as the lift began to settle, hanging loose as it should. He thought he was dead too.

“Hey, Cub – see that?” The man continued, pointing toward the East.

Cub followed his hand and saw a dark shadow weaving along the base of _The Wall_. There was an army approaching.

 


	65. The Weeping Rose

###  **THE SUNSPEAR – DORNE**

_Rhaegal's_ scales were agleam with seawater. It rained from the tips of his wings as they spread toward the sinking sun. He dragged his head backwards in a mournful cry. Throat open. Waves rolling far beneath. How like the forests of kelp he looked, green and silver, shivering off pearls of water. His soul was shattered into three and those fragments soared far as night threatened.

Tyrion crept closer, inching along the _Sunspear_ toward the dragon like a worshipper lost in prayer. _'Give him a cloak and chain!'_ Tywin had said of his imp. _'His books are his gold. Stories are the debt he owes.'_ And what a story Tyrion replied with, eyes on the beast. He was content that he'd leave a few volumes for history to ponder once his golden curls were buried.

“Sh...” he whispered, ducking his head in submission when those scales rustled with hostility. The dragon had kept a long sliver of its pupil on Tyrion ever since he stepped onto the stone bridge thrust out of the _Sunspear's_ main tower. “Aren't you beautiful...” He cooed, meaning every word. From lethal talon to curved fang, Tyrion was in love. “No maester could capture a soul like yours in their dreary scrolls. Fear holds their poet-tongues still.”

It was a one-sided love affair. The dragon swept its tail across the rail leaving scratches in Dorne's dusty shell. _Rhaegal_ was torn between the sea and the desert, with one sibling lost in each. Tyrion knew how he felt. His own were scattered across the world.

“Easy – _easy_.” Tyrion dropped his shoulders lower. “What's wrong with you today?” _Rhaegal_ repositioned himself on the cusp of stone, preparing to take flight. “It's only me. Remember?” They had spent so many weeks together on the ship, he had thought they shared a bond. Perhaps bonds were like smoke, thick and prying at one's eyes then gone with a breath of air.

_Rhaegal_ lifted his gum to bare the full length of his fangs. Smoke hissed from his snout, mixing with the sea mist. He was restless, bucking away from Tyrion's well meaning hand as it approached his nose. Without warning, the dragon startled.  _Rhaegal_ lifted to his full height and unfurled both wings again. One of them clipped Tyrion, who was sent flying over the  _Sunspear's_ promenade. The fall tore away his silk sleeves leaving one arm a bloody mess and a great smear in his wake.

“ _Rhaegal_?” Tyrion's heart hurt more than his arm. The dragon dove off the balcony. Tyrion groaned.

“Are you all right?” Missandei must have been close by for she was on him in moments, carefully helping Tyrion to sit. “Nothing serious,” she assured, “looks worse than it is. You must be careful – dragons are wild creatures. It is known everywhere in the East.”

Tyrion was infinitely more surprised by Missandei's presence than _Rhaegal's_ ill temper. “I have not seen much of you since Grey Worm... I – I was starting to worry for you. I understand he was a dear friend.” It was difficult to call it 'death' without a body to offer the gods.

Her hands stilled on Tyrion's ruined sleeve. Carefully, she met his eyes. “He _was_ a dear friend,” she agreed.

A foreign silence settled which Tyrion broke with a question. “What brings you out here so close on nightfall?”

“The Northern girl wanted to look at the dragon.” Missandei glanced around but the _Sunspear_ was bare. “Gone again. It is easier to mind rats than that wolf. Let me help you inside.”

“That is a common complaint made of Northern children. They're used to the wiles.” His eyes kept checking the empty balcony. “There's something wrong with Rhaegal. He's the quietest of the queen's three dragons but lately he's snapped at every shadow. No – I'm all right. Please don't fuss. I can walk.”

“Perhaps he senses a battle approaching?”

Tyrion nodded. “Of course. Doran predicts Lord Anders Yronwood's men will make it to the beach in three days. You could probably see them at the foot of the dunes if one had wings.”

“What are we doing fighting a war in the sand? The queen's war is at King's Landing.”

“Every conqueror from the Dawn to yesterday has been faced with wars they did not intend to fight. It's a bloody road we've chosen. Targaryens chase conflict as readily as they produce peace and I'm afraid Daenerys is not one to shy away from whatever she believes her destiny to be. She is, for better or worse, a mythical creature. We haven't had a queen like her for two hundred years.”

Missandei shook her head. “That is where you are incorrect. The queen is mortal and more fragile than you know. She breathes and she bleeds. Even Targaryens die.”

*~*~*

Arya spent the last hours of dusk chasing crabs across the sinking tide. She loved the way they moved as synchronised clouds of chaos which she could manipulate with a strike of _Needle_. Cut off from _The Faceless Men_ , she'd gradually drifted toward her first violent passion – Water Dancing, only this time the sea foam clipped her bare feet as she parried and spun. A flap of wings gave her pause. The green dragon paraded around above the waves, disappearing under its surface where the sea-gods lived. She kept her distance. Ice was made to float above the water.

When the keepers of the city lit oil lamps along the wall, Arya abandoned the beach. She scurried up and over the volcanic flows exposed by the tide before climbing the outside wall of the roughly constructed bridge. Its stones were so old she could feel their age grind against her flesh before she tumbled onto the road, scattering a patrol. They barked at her in Dornish until she vanished into the safety of the city.

The _Sunspear_ reminded her of _Winterfell_. Aside from layers of dust and scented smoke, there was a flicker of magic woven into the buildings. Although many of them had been left to ruin, they bore hints of their illustrious beginning. Half-destroyed frescos peered out from alley walls. She sidled up to one, placing her palm on the inlaid glass.

“Nymeria...” Arya said, making out the image of the _Rhoynar_ queen. “Where is _my_ Nymeria?” Lost. Roaming the frost forests of the North. In her dreams, Nymeria was alive and feasting on the flesh of fallen Lannisters.

She was shooed from the alley by a bar-keep and quickly sank into the thrum of the city. Its taverns and brothels overflowed as the Dornish prepared for war. They liked to fuck while they tied their spears – mixing poison with wine, sex with steel. Brightly coloured banners with embroidered dragons flapped in the stiff ocean wind, thrashing against the stone walls leaving a haze of dust over the crowds. Arya left it all behind, climbing into one of the thousand tunnels eaten into the bedrock. They slithered underground, intersecting a dozen times. It was a labyrinth thick with vermin, beggars and priests of _R'hllor_.

Eventually the tunnel became a staircase. Arya ascended until they ended in a set of iron bars. She wrapped her small hands around them and dragged the grate aside. Clambering into the cellar of the tower, she closed the passage and squatted in the shadows until the cook shuffled away.

Free, Arya roamed the castle as she had done in her home.

“A girl is curious...”

Arya spun so fast she stumbled over her own feet. For a moment she had thought – _but of course not._ He was a thousand miles away, across the sea. “Prince Doran...”

He was walking, taking fragile steps along the hallway where the archways let in the moonlight and the dust in equal measure. The prince kept one hand on the stone at all times to steady himself. “Lady Stark, I believe.”

She nodded and dipped her head as she'd been taught – though the image rang false. “I-”

“I do not mind that you wander the castle,” he interrupted. “Curiosity is welcomed in these parts. I watched you play on the sand earlier.”

“It is not play,” Arya insisted, her hand brushing _Needle_.

“Water Dancing is a great skill if it can be mastered. You, I think, had a teacher once.”

“The greatest of them all. He is dead.”

“Many good men are dead,” Prince Doran took another step toward the young Stark. “Your father included.”

“Were you waiting for me?” Arya asked, when she realised that the arched windows overlooked the beach where she had been practising.

“I have a piece of advice for you,” he admitted. “Wolves belong in the North. The games of the South are not of their concern. Stark is an ancient house, much like ours. These squabbles are a distraction from the greater game. I have a message from someone who would see you home. A little bird in the North.”

###  **RUINS OF VALYRIA – THE SMOKING SEA**

Daario turned _Yin's_ black stone over and over in his hand. It grew cold as he sank to his knees on the deck, eyes rolled back in featureless orbs – lips chanting an unknown tongue. First he saw a ring of ice, brilliant blue with a carpet of bones frozen in the water below. Undead, they scratched at the underside of the frozen lake, clawing toward a pale figure who moved as a breath of air, over the surface. Silver hair. Sapphire eyes.

His view shifted.

The deck of his ship reappeared – a brazen barrier of wood between the mist and ruins of _Valyria_ peeking out of the jungle.

“Daenerys?” he whispered.

His queen was dressed in silver, perched on the rail. Her eyes were made from pearls but amethysts hung around her neck in heavy chains. Blood soaked through her gown as she inched backwards, tilting at the edge. He reached toward her – too late. Daenerys tipped over the side of the boat and vanished. Daario lunged forward, grasping at the wood. He scrambled onto the rail and peered into the silent waters. She was lost to the ice, her body scattered into a million crystals which sunk toward the depths.

“Daenerys? Daenerys...” he cried, about to follow. A strong set of hands hauled him away, slamming Daario onto the deck without mercy. Daario's world shook. Cracks appeared in his vision. The flawless night was replaced with putrid sea-smog which curled into his lungs. Strings of lanterns struggled in the gloom. He sat up, heaving for air.

“This is no place for a swim, sellsword.” Quaithe warned, through her layers of gold. “As some priestesses say, _'the night is dark and full of terrors'_ , though in your case, I think the terrors are closer to your heart than the water.” She reached down, taking Daario's hand in hers. Firmly, she unfolded his digits to reveal the bloodstone taken from _Yin_. Quaithe visibly trembled. “You should not have this.”

Daario stared dumbly at the polished black rock in his palm. “I do not remember holding it tonight,” he admitted. He looked around the empty deck. It was late. The few spotters required to navigate the waters were at the far ends of the ship while the sailors hummed sad tunes from the sails, unfurling another sheet of canvas. “I was in my cabin. How did I get here?”

Quaithe helped him from the ground. “It is better we speak elsewhere.”

*~*~*

In his cabin, Daario placed the stone into a box. He stared for a moment as if checking it could not grow legs and water off. Quaithe circled the room lighting candles. When she was satisfied, she settled on the bed beside him.

“I took it from the palace in Yin,” Daario replied, to her unasked question. “I cannot think why other than a force compelled me to bring it. Surely it is only a rock?”

Quaithe glanced fearfully at the source of her recent nightmares. “It is part myth. Part fact. Part curse...” She refused to touch it, already drawn to its saturating power. It wept from the stone, poisoning the air. “It was made to sit in the hilt of an ornamental sword that has since been lost. The stories that survived say that this stone belonged to the Bloodstone Emperor himself. It was his favourite possession, scavenged from the far edge of the world where shadows breed with _wyverns_. These things are buried so deep in time that all we know is to let them be. Better that they sleep.”

Daario shook his head. “No,” he replied firmly. “This stone called for Daenerys. I don't know how or why but I must bring it to her.”

“You are not the only one it has gifted with dreams,” Quaithe warned. “Since I met you my nights are drowned in blood. I've seen my lover's face in a tree – bleached and old. A sea of corpses where his roots tangle and a wolf clawing at the bark until its sap spills out. There's a cave of ice at the far end of the world from which the gods watch our foolish games.” Quaithe turned away suddenly as the image of Bittersteel's frail body was sliced in two and sent into smoke filled her eyes. When they opened again, she realised it was nothing more than a dying candle. “There are creatures made from ice and death chasing a crippled boy through the snow. They hound him like a flock of crows.” The words made her shiver. “My gift of sight is not meant to be like this and you should not have one at all.”

Quaithe left the bed, moving to the window instead where she laid her head on the ship's hull. Against her ear, Quaithe timed her breathing in step with the lap of _Valyria's_ waves. The moon illuminated the mist while the ruins quietly crumbled into the water. The forests of these shores were far from dead. Life hummed, buzzed, shrieked and sang through the darkness. Somewhere, concealed by the fog and shadows, were the cursed men made from stone.

Finally, she admitted the worst of her dreams. “I have seen a tide of blood lap at Dorne's shore... An army lingers, restless at her gates.” Quaithe shook her head in dismay. “That is as far as I see.”

“Dorne is under siege?” Daario asked, alarmed. “The Crown has not raised a hand to _Dorne_ since a dragon fell from the sky. Surely they wouldn't...”

“The banners at the gate are not Baratheon or Lannister. The princes of Dorne war like the sea and sky.”

“And Daenerys is trapped in the middle.”

“If my dreams are to be believed but-”

“Dreams are only dreams,” Daario repeated, he knew the warnings well. “I can feel it though – can't you? The world is heading toward war.”

Quaithe dipped her head in a nod. “One way or another. We are divided by a million cracks. The scholars know that peace is purchased in blood. We are all in debt. It must be paid.”

Daario pointed at the world beyond the porthole. “We cannot move any faster through these ruins,” he added. “The passage is clogged with shallow bars and submerged buildings.” He extracted a map from the dresser drawer. The waters around _Valyria_ were poorly marked by a few brave pirates that dared to challenge the gods. This map was created by them then bought from the black market. “It's at least a day's sail with a steady wind until we reach the Narrow Sea. Another three or four days to make eyes on the Sunspear. Let us hope that your visions have given us the time we need to make the journey.”

“What if we arrive at Dorne and your queen is not there? You are commanding pirates, not sailors, on the weight of a dream. They will want their payment one way or another.” Quaithe worried they might fancy blood over gold.

“They have their payment in the belly of these ships,” Daario reminded the priestess, gesturing at the heavy girth below their feet. Even now she hung low on the water line, dragging her way through the cursed waters. They were in no state for a sea war.

“And if there are no enemies to fleece, they'll sail away with those heavy ships and leave you and the queen with nothing.”

“Not nothing,” he assured Quaithe. “I'd love to see them try and take the dragon. Why do you keep looking toward the stone?” He added, when Quaithe remained silent.

She dragged her eyes from its brooding surface. “I cannot decide if it is something we need to win the greater war or if it plots to destroy our cause. Old magic has unknowable masters.”

“The Bloodstone Emperor fought against the Long Night.”

Quaithe nodded carefully in reply. “True. He was also its cause, if the songs are to be believed. Make of that what you will.”

###  **THE RED MOUNTAINS – DORNE**

“This place is old,” Jorah whispered, standing in front of the cave wall. The desert light crept far enough into the abyss to make out a wall of elaborate sketches which stretched from the roof to the floor. Etched directly into the rock, they were further embellished with ochre and charcoal. “The style is unlike anything I've ever seen.”

Northern ancestors preferred illegible runes to pictures and even the oldest surviving civilisation had their buildings and gilded walls. This text was rough, made by a desperate hand, dying in the desert.

“Here...” He lifted his hand to a curve representing the ground. Above, a fire sailed overhead. “Your red star. Everywhere we travel, it appears.”

“What if the red star is like the Winter?” Daenerys asked, standing beside him as she re-tied her clothes. “Coming and going as it pleases.”

Jorah lowered his hand to the rest of the image. The world was on fire. Black scratches denoted swords, scattered in their thousands over the rocks. He stepped away, unsettled. “I am beginning to feel that history shadows us,” he murmured. “For what reason? What is it trying to say?”

Northern men were drenched in suspicion of their gods. “It is teaching,” Daenerys dropped her voice to a whisper. “If only we might learn.”

They tried to understand, rummaging around the caves for many hours but the voices murmuring in their ears were drowned by the vast chasm of time dividing them. “We don't have time to linger,” Jorah finally caught Daenerys lightly by her elbow, tugging her away. “Yronwood will have despatched men to hunt us while we're vulnerable on the ground. Close your eyes, pray to Drogon if you must. We have use of his wings.”

Daenerys did as he bid, sitting on a protrusion of rock outside the cave while the sunset lingered, leaving the horizon ablaze. When he finally came, they climbed onto his back and then all three of them suddenly dipped below the rock, vanishing into the air.

###  **THE SUNSPEAR – DORNE**

Tyrion braced himself while his arm was wrapped in swathes of scented cloth by the Dornish doctors. Varys observed with his usual ambiance of detachment.

“Ageon's original fort sits in the heart of King's Landing, entombed by all her vulgar establishments. I saw it once – when the sun caught a rough edge. It reminded me of an egg cracking.” Varys relaxed onto his silk cushion considering the smoking pipe he'd refused earlier.

Tyrion winced as the bandage was tied by the Dornishman's nimble hands. “Whatever has brought you to this idle point?” He asked, after the man had left.

Varys shrugged. “Nothing in particular, only this stone beast standing between us and Yronwood's army is much the same. Built by the Martells. Encased by the Rhoynish. Buried by Dornish peasants. Yes...” He trailed off, unsure if he was calmed by it.

It took a moment for Tyrion to catch up. “You're actually concerned that we might die here...”

“Only a fool could find courage in this mess.”

“Aren't you going to sharpen your blade?” Asked Tyrion, nodding to the armour and weapons laid out on the table for Varys.

“And what would be the point in that?” He asked calmly.

“I'm sure you could find a few reasons when you're staring down a blade.”

“There is only one thing worse than dying in futility. Looking ridiculous doing so. Speaking of which...” he hinted at Tyrion's arm.

“I'm worried about Rhaegal,” Tyrion replied. “It's not like him to snap. Missandei too... What do you believe happened to Grey Worm?”

The question took Varys by surprise. “He is dead, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Tyrion agreed. “It is strange though. He was devoted to the queen. Honourable. Devout, even. Men like that are often the first to find harm.”

“You believe he was killed by something more than a crocodile or thief?”

“I've thought about it, that's all.”

“...and if not the local wildlife, the threat is remains among our number.”

“Maybe.”

“Statistically, there are always going to be spies and traitors on any side,” Varys replied. “You may be right. Perhaps Grey Worm found one of them. There is little we can do about that on the eve of battle. One traitor is an inconvenience – an army low on moral is a disaster. We should take a scroll from Quentyn's library. I hear he's swamped the city with coin and wine. They'll fight like savages.”

“The Dothraki have joined him. They're finally having a good time. War becomes them.”

And what, Varys wondered, did the queen intend to do with her scavengers when all was said and done?

###  **KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS**

Lines of starving citizens filled the streets, drawn from their homes by the overwhelming drive of hunger. They headed en masse to toward the _Great Sept of Baelor_ where they wailed for days and beat their fists against the closed doors until its wood was tarnished with blood. The generosity of the _Iron Bank_ had run dry. The harbour was full of empty ships, knocking together with gulls tearing feathers off each other. The roads to the West and North were transformed into tracks of misery for those abandoning the city. From the South, soldiers marched bringing what little food could be sourced from nearby farms. A Sparrow, brave enough to stand on the street and give his sermon was dragged from his alter by the crowd and eaten.

The Tyrells watched the heart of the kingdom burn.

Olenna's instructions to send their bounty North had been carried out before the remaining Lannister army arrived. They found empty silos and a wall of swords, all of which left a smug curve to the aging matriarch’s lips as she was marched before the High Sparrow.

He was beyond his wits, pacing over the sept floor in bare feet. His rags hung in ever increasing disarray, mirroring the deteriorating state of the capital’s affairs. She made an oath to herself that if he started quoting scripture to her, she'd let the whole city starve to death, right to the last screaming child.

“I take it that the well of Lannister gold has run dry?”

“Let us do each other the credit of speaking plainly,” the High Sparrow replied, turning to face Olenna. He held a small box made of silver in his hands.

“Cersei has refused to help and so you are left with me. Unfortunately for you, my two grandchildren are imprisoned by your institution of barely veiled tyranny and so the likelihood of a successful negotiation for my grain appears to be at an impasse. The city starves. Your popularity and ultimately your power, dwindles.”

“Too plain.” The box was placed on alter in front of Olenna. “Though it is true that you have the ability to save these poor starving wretches. Hear them?” He asked, looking absently toward the walls. Indeed, there was an ever-present _thud thud thud_ on the air. “They cry out for their gods – I feel their pain.” The lid on the box was opened slowly. “It tears at my heart. The people of faith are one.” Its contents was revealed. Olenna's countenance remained unchanged save a flicker of acknowledgement across her grey eyes. “If they bleed, so too must those that rule them. If they weep. We weep. That is what it means to rule.”

“Then I look forward to watching you starve...” replied Olenna coldly, as she snatched the box and tossed it through the open window into the abyss. Whomever that ear belonged to, it could not deter her from this course. Submitting now was death. Of that she was sure.

Eventually the High Sparrow had her thrown into the cells. Old and aching in her bones, Olenna hunted through her robes until she withdrew a lock-pick. She slid it into the door and with the practice of a royal lady, released herself from captivity.

Moans escaped from the doors in the makeshift prison. She listened carefully, slipping from shadow to shadow until a shallow set of groans brought her to a stop. This door was unlocked with candlelight creeping between the cracks. The hideous drawl of a sermon festered in the air. Olenna waited for it end then, as the door shifted open, she forced all her weight upon it. The door smacked into the Septa, knocking the woman onto the floor inside the cell. Olenna entered the room and collapsed onto the woman, wrapping her hands around the pale neck until the life died away.

With a body on the floor, Olenna searched the room only to find her grandson cowering in the corner with a filthy bandage wrapped around his face, bled through where his ear should have been. Anger rose in her throat but Olenna calmed herself.

“Loras...” She commanded firmly. “Loras, _stand up_!”

All he could do was weep. He was a cluster of bone, swaddled in filth.

*~*~*

Cersie occupied her seat in the _Red Keep_ as though it were a throne and she a mad god revelling in the hungry screams. The High Sparrow had stripped her of any flicker of power. Her friends in the _Iron Bank_ were gone and she had no lingering fondness of religion while her only ally, albeit it a hostile one, had now been thrown in a cell. People were trailing away from the city like blood from a wound, traipsing North.

Wine sank from her glass to her throat while her mind lingered on the emerald ocean lapping beneath the city. Gradually, the stupor of alcohol left her lying on the floor, laughing at the thought of a sky filled with ash and a sea made black with the wings of sparrows.

###  **WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH**

Lord Baelish laid both hands on the freshly built wall. His rings clinked softly on the freezing stone which barricaded the castle from the South. Beneath, every man chipped, hauled or placed more stones into the wall, rebuilding _Winterfell_ stone by stone. Most were salvaged from the burned castle creating an odd patchwork of mismatched soot. It did not matter, so long as it held.

Inside, forges glowed and the air filled with endless beating of steel. It was a hive led by a wolf. He imagined himself King of the snows, Lord of the ice. _Winterfell_ was not particularly helpful in his greater cause but it was a personal victory. He stood not on the shoulders but on the graves of those that made him bleed. His crown was one of red fur and deep eyes.

*~*~*

“Fuckin' snow!” Bronn dragged his legs out of the knee-deep powder, cursing every step. As soon as they'd cleared _Greywater Watch_ , the weather took a turn for the worse.

“I don't remember it being this bad,” Jaime admitted. They were on foot, giving their horses a break. The rest of the Lannister army ambled along behind like a gold blanket. “I guess the old fool was right. Winter _is_ coming.”

The sun hardly managed to lift from dawn to dusk while the night was left to stretch for hours. In every town they passed, the fires along the walls were dying. The roads, what little of them they could find, had iced over. Even the _King's Road_ was obscured beneath metres of white powder. Whispers of a conquering Targaryen circled the air in every tavern and brothel – according to Bronn.

“She's a looker,” he'd added helpfully, as they marched onwards. “And she's got dragons. Big fuckers. We don't have any of those unless you count that Sparrow. He fucked us good. Wouldn't mind something hot about now. All this bloody ice is getting in my boots. You've gone very quiet.”

“I've had my fill of dragons,” Jaime admitted.

Of course. Bronn nodded in acknowledgement. “Still, makes the battle a bit more interesting.”

“You wouldn't say that if you had to face one of those creatures in the field. A true dragon would turn you to ash where you stood. Cock and all.”

“Nah...” Bronn shrugged it off. “I'd be all right, me. I'm good with animals. Blimey...” He craned his head to the side as they entered another forest. This time they could hear the pine trees quaking under the weight of a recent snowfall. “Any of those limbs give out and we'll be a feast for wolves.”

Jaime agreed, giving the order for the army to proceed quiet as death into the forest.

That night they slept beneath the ancient pine trees with their tents strung between enormous girths. Snow squirrels landed on the canvas sheets, sliding across the taught surface. Jaime lay awake beside Bronn, concerned the other man's snoring might bring the fragile world of ice down around them. Eventually exhaustion dragged him into sleep.

Every night it was the same. Jaime dreamed of Tommen surrounded by a crown of blood and Cersei laying naked on the floor with ash spilling from her lips. A tide of wine crashes over them both. Then the flames lick up. Steel slices through the fire and the flames die. For the rest of the night he is left in darkness until a pair of sapphires blink at the night. Brienne of Tarth. His body shudders. Jaime wakes to another frozen morning.

*~*~*

The Hound and his pet hung back, keeping to the shadows as morning cracked over the pale sky. _Winterfell_ , in all its ruination, lay sprawled in the snow like a corpse picked apart by ravens. Not for long. Soldiers worked like ants, dragging the castle back together. Their fires were brighter than the sun giving the innards of the castle a welcoming glow. The heat melted the snow, leaving a black stain around the base of the castle. Similarly, the hot springs in the God Wood kept the small lakes melted and the trees green. A stag placed its hooves carefully in the snow, ears twitching with voices on the wind. The Hound could hear them too. There was a heart beating in that place. Somewhere, beneath the layers of stone, was a wolf queen.

“Like I said,” the young Hornwood lord pointed at the castle, “Winterfell. She's not as I remember her. I heard the stories, we all did, about a dragon burning it to the ground. I didn't believe them.” It wasn't only the castle itself. In the fields of snow that surrounded it, the Northerners had piled bodies high and turned them to ash. Pyres remained, smouldering.

“And now you do? Could've been that Bolton war.”

“No... I've only seen rock melt like that once before. Harrenhal.” But unlike that doomed fortress, _Winterfell_ survived.

The Hound pried himself from the ground with a rustle of armour. He gestured at the forest. “You can go.”

The Hornwood Lord stood perplexed. “Leave?” he asked. “Leave to _where_?”

“Wherever the fuck lords go.”

“I have nowhere _to go_. They'll think I'm a deserter. If I return to the Lannister army I'll lose my head. If I go home my father will march me back to the army and I'll still lose my head. The South has gone to shit and the harbours East are awash with hoards fleeing King's Landing. There's no food. There's no land.” He turned to the ice-locked castle. “May as well stay here. I could help you.” He tried not to take offence as the Hound scoffed. Defiant, the lord removed his golden cloak and let it fall to the ground. “I brought you this far.”

*~*~*

Steam lifted through the Godwood. Creatures ducked between the icicles hanging from pine branches. They swayed in the freezing wind, threatening the ground below. Sansa stood before the _Weirwood._ Its bark was marred by a new scar driven straight between its eyes. Sap bled into the snow leaving thick pools of scarlet which froze. She knelt, digging some of it out of the snow. She held the horrific, molten creation in her hands. Stone forged of blood. Tears of the gods. The face in the tree had changed.

Sansa startled.

Footsteps fell heavy in the snow behind, approaching from the direction of the tombs. “Who's there?” She asked bravely, clutching the handle of her knife. The figure stepped into the light, appearing on the other side of the hot pool. His figure was obscured by the mist. “Name yourself.”

“Begging your pardon, M'lady...” Gendry dropped to his knees. His Baratheon hair was black as night. “For the intrusion. It was the only way I could speak to you alone.”

Sansa withdrew her knife and kept it in her hand. She straightened and with renewed fierceness, drew closer to the smouldering waters. “Why would you wish such a thing?”

“I have information about your sister,” he replied. “Information I believe you may wish to keep private.” Gendry remained still although his knee began to freeze. His home was in the glow of a forge. Heat gave him life. His bare arms were agleam with dried sweat and soot.

Sansa lifted her hand to the man. “I am not so alone as you may think.” She gestured to the air and a moment later Brienne and Podrick emerged from their hides, swords raised. Brienne, in particular, set her steely gaze upon the man. A breath in the wrong direction and her _Valyrian_ sword would find his heart. A third figure which she did not expect, appeared beside the man. “Davos?”

“Ay, Lady Stark,” Davos Seaworth dipped his head respectfully. “Please,” he lifted both hands, “this meeting is of my doing. Come.”

With her guards close, Sansa circled the water and met Davos and his man in front of the collapsed entrance of a Stark tomb. She rested her gloved hand on its decrepit stone before all four of them descended into the tunnel beneath. Torches were lit. The ice that lined the ceiling and walls quickly melted into a river at their feet.

“What is going on? I thought you rode out with Jon.” Sansa asked Davos while staring at the young man. She could not place why but he had a likeness to someone she'd met before. He was smeared in ash and his leather wreaked of smoke. “Is this one of Baelish's blacksmiths?”

Davos nodded. “He is. An excellent smith Gendry is too. He studied with one of the greatest in the land. As for your brother, I promised to catch him up. I know the way.”

“And you have word of my sister?”

This time Gendry nodded. “A fighter. Strong, like the old Stark. Arya and I parted ways many years ago. She rode with the Brotherhood Without Banners. They roam the Riverlands, picking fights with the scavenger brutes that have filled the void of power. I am not like her. My skills are better set to use forging the swords men wield.”

“Then Arya is alive?” Sansa could scarce believe it.

“When I last saw her. Healthy too. If I had money to wager, I'd say she is alive still.”

Sansa was calm for a moment but the pieces before her did not fit neatly into place. Brienne felt it too. She could read her knight's cold look. “Why hide in the shadows? You could have come forward at the castle...”

Gendry did not know how to find the words so Davos spoke for him. “Things are more difficult than they appear, my lady. The Red Witch your brother keeps has a wish to kill Gendry because of who he is. Others too, might seek to take advantage.”

The Red Witch, who was making her way to _The Wall_ with the bulk of the army. Sansa took a a measured step closer to the young man. “And who, exactly, _are you_?”

“Blood of kings...” Gendry replied. “The witch is crazy. She thinks my blood can turn the tide of war. Look how that turned out for Stannis. My Uncle died a fool's death because he put stock in the ravings of magic.” His eyes settled on Brienne. “His end was deserved.”

“Uncle...” Brienne whispered out of turn before she could stop herself. That made him Renly's nephew too.

_That's_ why he was familiar. “You're one of King Robert's bastards...” A nod confirmed it. Sansa felt ill. Robert and his kin were the cause of her father's death. “You should not be here.”

“M'lady,” he proceeded gently. “My father may have been a king but he left my mother to die. I never met Robert. I was raised by my mentor. He taught me how to fashion weapons in every style.” He paused, lingering on Brienne's blade. “Even Valyrian steel. Your knight holds one of the pieces we worked on, cut from your own family sword. I was there when it was melted. I didn't come here for a fight – I came here to make steel. Where the world is headed, you will be needing a lot of it.”

Sansa agreed to protect Gendry and to keep his identity between the four present. He was right about one thing, they needed high quality weapons if they were to stand a chance against their enemies. Gendry returned to the centre of  _Winterfell_ where his fires burned. Davos headed South to join Jon. Brienne and Podrick escorted Sansa back to the castle where they skulked about in the crumbling rooms. Brienne could not stop touching her sword after that. It was a strange feeling, to meet the man that birthed it.

“What do you think?” Brienne asked, as Podrick lit the fireplace.

Sansa brooded against the opposing wall. “Whether he wishes it or not, a bastard of Robert has a claim to the Southern throne. That could be useful.”

“You're going to keep him to make use of his claim?” Brienne was unsettled.

“That is how the game works – and I have the last Baratheon.”

###  **KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS**

Olenna forced her grandson to stand. The boy trembled, propped against the wall with rivers of dried blood staining his skin. His pupils were large, deprived of light for weeks under the Sparrow's tyranny. His golden hair was streaked with silver while a thick scab on his forehead covered a branding mark left by one of their inhuman trials. She had no time for pity.

With force, Olenna dragged Loras out of the cell. “Where is she? Where are they holding her? Loras. Where is your sister? Loras – you fool of a boy. Speak! Loras!” She grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently. Nothing. Loras had become a shell. Weak – like his father. Olenna often resented him for it. The Tyrells required strength – inner strength... Without that they were dead on the bush.

“They keep her this way...”

Olenna reeled around, started by a small voice. Tommen had draped himself in a peasant cloak and followed Olenna when she was summoned by the High Sparrow. He'd listened at the door as they spoke calmly of the starvation of his realm and then followed her further into the sept.

“Young king, this is no place for you!” Olenna hissed in a whisper. She meant well. However terrible his mother was, the boy had shown nothing but kindness to her granddaughter.

“Do you want to know where she is, or not?” Tommen replied. “I miss her too,” he admitted, as they walked. “Every day.” It was clear that he had walked this path many times. “I've visit her – when the sept is quiet.”

“Why are you helping us?” Olenna asked, as they drew near Margaery's room.

Tommen was perplexed by this question. “She is my wife,” he replied, “my queen – my life. You want what I want. Her freedom.”

Poor, _poor_ boy, thought Olenna. He'd bought into the fantasy, seduced by Margaery's charms. She was truly sorry for what lay ahead for the young king.

“Here,” Tommen said, in front of a thick door made of iron and wood. He laid on the ground, lining his eye to the crack between the door and the stone. A moment later, another eye appeared on the other side of the crack. Margaery.

 


	66. Nefer: Secret City

 

 

###  ** THE SKIES ABOVE DORNE **

Jorah eyed the fresh line of muscle running between _Drogon's_ shoulder blades. His wings barely moved as he cruised through the night, tilting slightly to dip his claws into a fresh current of air. Daenerys spurned the saddle to lay face down along the dragon's spine with her eyes watching the stars. His scales tore at her ruined clothes. She preferred this. Gold and crowns were for mortal kings. She was a _dragon_. Her crown was cast of fire. Her empire lay in the clouds.

“I've been wondering,” she began, “was it wrong?” She caught Jorah off guard. He was reclined against the rugs in the saddle, loosely bound in leather straps. They had both become complacent on _Drogon's_ back. “I've stolen a sword and set the world on fire.”

“We won't know the answer to that question until the battle is finished, Your Grace.” Jorah replied.

Daenerys lifted her head, bemused. “How can that be?”

Jorah shrugged, sucking in the desert air. It was clean, like the Northern winds. “Well, if you were right, victory is ours. Doran Martell and his kin will back your claim and with your army blooded, we all ride unabated through the Red Hills to King's Landing carrying a sword you saw in a vision.”

 _Fodder for maesters_ , Jorah thought quietly. He was curious how much truth would make it to their sprawling libraries and how much had already been brushed away by the Baratheon reign. He pitied them. Deciphering Daenerys was a fool's errand. She was _unknowable_.

“Conversely if you are wrong we will find ourselves floating in the sea by the end of the week and that pretty sword will become a spoil of war for the new Yronwood dynasty.”

“Thank you, Ser. I didn't realise morality hung on the fate of battle.”

“Of course it does,” he assured her. “The winner vanquishes truth as well as battle. Imagine the Targaryen legacy if Aegon's conquest had failed. A tyrant and his sisters, slain over the water... Monsters from the East felled by seven kingdoms and their lords. I support your claim,” he assured her, “but there are many who lost against your kin who remember the bones of their ancestors. They'll not greet you as a friend. We are fortunate that Dorne is indifferent, so long as you remain indifferent to them. They'll never love you. They'll never follow you – unless it is for their own reasons. In that, the Dornishman can be relied upon.”

Dragon-back was they only place that Daenerys found peace. The steady _beat_ of _Drogon's_ heart kept time with the waves far below. His warmth protected her from the cold desert air. “How far away are Yronwood's men?”

Jorah leaned over from his perch, looking backwards at the flanks of the _Red Mountains_. They were illuminated in moonlight as silver curtains with a sea of false stars. Black stains marbled them like veins running dry.

“Yronwood's ranks are moving onto the flat. His army hasn't made camp which means they intend to push on toward the city.” He confirmed. “We'll beat them to the Sunspear but not by much.”

“I see a lot of things in my dreams,” she changed the subject, turning her head so that her other cheek rested on _Drogon's_ scales, “but last night I saw a young man from Ancient Valyria sail through the great western seas of ice. Bergs knocked against his ship until it became trapped, walled in by white. He abandoned the vessel with his men and made their way through the frozen waters. I never saw what became of him but his sword fell between a pair of black boulders where a ghost tree struggled into life. Ser?”

Jorah looked North. “That is our house sword,” he replied softly. “The Mormonts found it on a ranging... Far in the North. Nameless and lost. The other houses bought or stole their swords. Ours was a gift from the snow.”

The shadow of Yronwood's army thickened. In front, the _Sunspear_ hung like a spirit, risen from the waves surrounded by a flat tide. The last lights in the _Shadow City_ were snuffed while a small convoy of traders could be seen fleeing along the waterline. Others trickled in toward the coming fight. Allies of Doran. All the while Jorah's skin prickled with the ghost of the queen's lips. It worried him that her dreams had settled in the North.

“This is the calm before the storm...” Jorah warned, eyes on the night.

Hers remained on the approaching doom but her thoughts drifted to the stoic knight. “You don't speak about your family... Except in the distance.”

“What is there to say?” Jorah returned, shifting against the leather straps. He did not wish to speak of them now either.

“It is unusual – as you clearly love them. We will see the North again. It is likely you will stand before your house with an army at your back.”

“And no honour.” His reply was swift, cutting the air.

“No honour? How can you say that... Your honour was earned a hundred times over, Ser.”

“Not all sins can be undone with good deeds – certainly not where I come from. Honour once lost is lost forever. If I ever see my family again I'll accept the sword at my neck. I'm tired of running from its blade. If Eddard Stark had found me you might already be queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I betrayed you too.”

“Well there at least, you are wrong. Without you I am dust washing across the Dothraki Sea.”

“Yronwood has a lot of men...” Jorah lamented.

“And we have two dragons,” she countered. “That has to count for something.” She paused, eyeing her knight. “Ser – you'll not offer your neck to any sword. Is that understood?”

###  ** CITADEL – OLD TOWN **

Marwyn moved with unexpected pace, wobbling from side to side with his outrageous gut. He and Sam navigated the narrow streets dividing the great libraries of _Old Town_. Either side, crumbling walls towered leaving the streets locked in vicious wind tunnels, too violent for lanterns to hang.

In darkness they continued, guided by Marwyn who knew the exact curve of every cobblestone and set flight up stairs before Sam saw their edges. Nimble for his size, part of Sam wondered if Marwyn's exterior might be some form of enchantment.

Finally Marwyn stopped outside an unassuming maplewood door. He took a key from his robe, turned the lock and drove his shoulder against the wood to force it open, unleashing a layer of rust.

Sam heard a pile of parchment shift as they stepped inside. “What is this place?” he asked.

“Sh...” Marwyn closed the door and in the absolute pitch, locked it. Silence. _Click. Click. Click. Whoosh!_ The archmaester had knelt on the ground and was smashing flint against a candle which erupted in light. He used it to light several lamps, turning up their wicks to bring the small space to life. “This is Leyton's room, when he'd rather keep his business private.”

“A tower fortress isn't private?”

Sam received no answer.

A thick skin of dust coated everything except the collapsed pile of letters at the door. The room was a poky hovel with a bed pushed to one side, a desk in the centre and an old rug curled at the edges. “It doesn't look like anyone's been here for a while...” Sam pointed out.

Marwyn collected the pile of letters and then fished one out, turning it over reverently. “That is because dear Leyton has been dead for a long time... May his soul rest with his gods.” There was a moment where Marwyn pressed his fingertips tenderly to the parchment. A crack in his armour. It vanished. “Quick – help me,” he insisted, moving to the table where he laid the letters out. “We must see who he was in contact with before he died.”

Sam and Marwyn huddled around the trio of lanterns, skimming each letter. They sorted them into piles. Soon it became clear what old Hightower's intention had been. “Where do all these come from?” Sam asked, snapping a wax seal .

“Leyton used to call them 'little birds'. In reality they were packs of wild children, roaming the street. They brought the messages ravens could not.”

“Varys again...” Tarly unfolded a letter. “This time he writes,

_'She is upon our shores. A Targaryen with a title and a birthright. An army of loyal supporters to sweep aside the corruption of the realm.'_

“As if he intends Hightower to act.” Sam skipped through a considerable amount before realising, “This Varys person has been planning a coo with the old houses of Westeros for some time. Look at these...” He pointed to the smaller piles littered over the floor. “They're everywhere.”

“Varys or _The Spider_ as some know him, is renowned as a dangerous man.” Marwyn assured Sam, as he slipped the letter from his fingers. “But I trust Leyton. If they were working together then we should honour their cause.”

“Blindly? Marwyn, these men are building kingdoms... Manipulating our future.”

“They were backing a Targaryen conquest. It wouldn't be the first. Come, we must send these letters on.”

Tarly stared dumbly, empty handed as Marwyn gathered up the letters, panic written in his eyes. “No – wait!” He put his hands over Marwyn's. “We can't do this... Lord Hightower is dead and I'm sorry – I know he was your friend but this – this cause that he's involved with, surely it should be passed on to the next Hightower in line – or one of the other lords?”

“The Faceless Men are _in Westeros_...” He lowered his voice seriously. “Who knows how far their influence reaches – who they've replaced with their soldiers. If I know _anything_ it's that Leyton feared those fanatics more than war. He drove himself into a recluse, choosing to live in a prison of his own making in order to escape their blade and not even that was enough. If they got to him, they could get to anyone.”

 _Anyone_. Sam eyed Marwyn with a flicker of suspicion. Marwyn hit him with the pile of letters for thinking it.

“No matter where you go in the world, Tarly, everyone says the same thing about the cult of the Faceless Men.”

“And what do they say?”

Marwyn's tone darkened. “That they are men who worship death. Is that what you want for Westeros?”

Sam shook his head. Of course he didn't want that but at the same time he'd been an avid purveyor of history. Targaryens were a gamble for those who liked high risk games. Mad. Brilliant. Violent. Peaceful. “Marwyn, I'm not sure I want _you_ in Westeros.”

He was prepared to take that as a compliment. “I may enjoy the fringes of acceptable interests – nudge the boundaries of the known.... but I have made a career of opposing those that are set upon destroying the realm.”

“You're referring to the maesters?”

“I am sorry, I know you came here to become one-”

“No. I came here to learn what I must to help Jon fight the Others. Instead I found you.”

A smile cracked over Marwyn's lips as the lanterns struggled. The room was deprived of oxygen and suffocating in dust. “Good. Then help me.”

“I guess – we have a dragon... If we don't know who to trust, why don't we go and find the Targaryen queen ourselves? These letters say that she is in Dorne – we can make that distance.”

“You are right,” Marwyn added, packing the letters up. “We do have a dragon but if you are correct about the armies gathering North of the wall, we're going to need something a little bigger to sway the odds.” He moved to leave and this time Sam made not attempt to stop him. “Let's avail ourselves of the library's ravens before we go.”

With Leyton's correspondence aloft, they returned to find Gilly nursing Little Sam by the fire, singing softly. Sam took a second look at the flames. Nestled in the raging fire was the scarlet body of their infant dragon.

“He won't come away from the fire,” Gilly complained, seeing their surprise. “It doesn't like the rain.”

“Actually, I believe you'll find that is a female dragon...” The dragon's tiny paws were tucked underneath its body leaving her tail swishing, side to side, disturbing the coals. Incredible. The egg could be a day old or a thousand years and still hatch an infant monster. “It'll need a name,” Marwyn advised. “If you wish it to be tame.”

“ _Ash_...” Gilly replied, almost immediately. “That is what it'll look like when it comes out of the fire.”

“Gilly...” Marwyn lowered himself to the bed beside the young Wildling as she fed her child. It dipped low under his weight. “We need to get that dragon out of the fire. Sam and I have unfinished business then we're all leaving Old Town – immediately.”

Gilly turned on Sam. “Leaving for _where_?” she asked, ignoring Marwyn.

“Gilly, please – I'll explain everything – I will.”

“What about Little Sam?”

Sam stepped forward and delicately brushed the baby's soft hair from his forehead. Little Sam wriggled at the touch, turning in toward Gilly. “He's not safe here any more. We have to go.”

*~*~*

“And you're certain about this?” Sam asked for the hundredth time, as they spiralled around the stairs beneath the library heading for the crypts. The rush of Sam's torch licked across the walls and his face as if they were the same. Marwyn lagged behind, struggling under the weight of an urn whose liquid sloshed around inside. Sam could hear it keeping time with their steps.

“No.” He puffed. “I thought – you'd be – pleased – Tarly – I'm finally – agreeing – with you.”

“Perfect. Right when I was starting to agree with _you_...”

Down again. The ground evened out into tunnels which were interrupted by sets of locked doors and ever-increasing putrid air. Marwyn entrusted Sam with the keys. He struggled with their corroded bodies, shuffling them in the locks until the last door creaked open. Black glass. A cell made of night. Mist streamed out from Sam's lips as the temperature of the room plummeted.

“We're here...”

“Leyton's last gift,” Marwyn purred, as he stumbled through the room. He set the heavy urn down in front of the bars separating the undead creature of ice from the world. “Come on out, I want one last look at you... It would be rude, after all, to end this without a goodbye.”

From the frost-covered depths inside the prison emerged the Whitewalker. It moved slowly, running its clawed fingers along the glass bars in temptation of death. It knew exactly why they had come.

“It's been waiting for us...” Sam whispered. “See – I warned you – they can hear our thoughts.”

Marwyn strutted up to the bars and came within a breath of the hideous construct of Winter. He stared into the sapphire eyes. Searched them for life. He found magic instead. “If the world could see what we see Sam, it might take a different path... How small our petty wars are when you look upon a thing like this. At the end of the day, there is only life and death. Targaryens. Baratheons. Starks. Lannisters. Ironborn. What of it? Who cares who wields the swords so long as they strike the depths of Winter. That is what Leyton was playing at. He wants the most sword. He looked upon this thing and chose to back a dragon usurper. Of course his solution to the problem was political. Leyton was a measured man. I prefer a more _direct_ approach.”

He bent over, unlatching the lid of the container. Iridescent liquid spilled onto the lid and splashed over the floor causing Sam to stumble away in alarm.

“And you're certain this will work?” Sam asked nervously, holding the torch away from the Wildfire.

“No,” Marwyn admitted, “but it should – unless you want to have a go with one of those black daggers?”

Sam shook his head. Once was a fluke. He had a feeling that if he faced another Whitewalker he'd end up wandering the snows with a set of matching blue eyes.

“I thought so. Now careful...” he warned, as he readied himself. They took a collective breath. Marwyn kicked the barrel. It sloshed over the ground, pouring through the bars of the cell. The Whitewalker did nothing. It held its ground at the bars, wrapping one of its awful hands around the dragonglass sending shards of ice up the bar. Soon the cell was flooded, glowing against the layers of frost that had built up over the years.

Marwyn retreated.

“Are you sure?” Sam asked, one final time.

“We can't take it with us and we can't leave it here...” Marwyn took the flaming torch from Sam's hands. “So yes, I say we find out if Death can die.”

With that, Marwyn tossed the torch toward the cell. The Wildfire ignited before the torch hit the ground. A rush of burning air knocked Marwyn and Sam violently against the wall, pinning them as the fireball engulfed the Whitewalker's cell.

Sam closed his eyes as the flames churned on each other, consuming everything until the bars melted and the walls drooped inwards. The heat was unbearable. Marwyn was the first to his senses. Grabbing hold of Sam's robes, he dragged the younger man toward the door and pushed him through. They slammed it shut as the Wildfire spun out of control – overwhelming the entire room. Sweat poured off their skin. The heat seeped from the heavy door as if the world itself had cracked and spewed forth hell.

“Nothing could survive that...” Sam whispered. “I've – I've never seen anything like it...”

“Wildfire...” Marwyn whispered. “They said it melted Stannis' ships into stone before they sank to the bottom of Blackwater Bay. That the very water itself was set alight.”

“We're going to need a lot of that where we're going...”

“The maesters make it day and night – squirrelling barrels of it away.” They retreated from the door as flames licked through onto their side, transfixed by the sight. A red door to the underworld.

*~*~*

The Wildfire's eruption tore a hole in the opposite side of the cell. Its heat boiled water bubbles trapped in the dragonglass, causing the bricks that kept the Whitewalker prisoner to explode. They shattered like a thousand stars. Before the heat took hold, the creature picked its way around the edge of the fire and, obscured by the green flames, slipped through the ruined wall that had kept it prisoner.

At the surface, it paused as the first brush of moonlight passed its pale bone. Ash marred its limbs, fusing ligaments to its skeleton in a painful web of crystal flesh. One arm hung by a sinew which eventually broke. A pair of eyes searched the night, reading the stars. It noticed the smear of red from a comet tail, hanging low in the North. In front, a warm sea swelled in and out with the turn of the sun and moon. War loomed nearby. It could smell the stench of death on the air.

There was more...

The Whitewalker moved toward the hills, unseen and silent with a trail of mist.

*~*~*

Gilly, Marwyn and Sam followed the trade route which snaked around the coast, keeping to the flat – easy ground. They passed a constant stream of caravans, each squeaking along with a hush of chatter. Most spoke the Common Tongue but occasionally Sam picked out Dornish and even High Valyrian from Eastern convoys. Their dragon was tucked in its sack while the rest of their possessions lay in an open cart. Marwyn had left his quarters in the citadel shut up, choosing only a few relics to bring along. The risk of theft was real and none of them, save Gilly, could fend off a robbery. Instead, they cried poor.

“We follow this past the Three Towers, the Sun House and then across the river at Starfall. After that, we're deep in Dornish land. Best we hire a ship if we want to make it to the Sunspear while the queen is there. The desert is too harsh for the child.”

Gilly, who was carrying Little Sam close to her chest, nodded. “The old lord gave me coin – enough for passage on a ship.”

The lights of _Old Town_ faded into the coast. To their right, an endless world of black lapped at the cliffs beneath. White sails caught the moonlight. Gulls, disturbed by the passing wagons, screeched briefly before retreating to their nest inside the rock.

“You speak of the gods,” Sam started, keeping their conversation as they walked, “but who are _your_ gods?”

“My gods are the wandering stars,” Marwyn replied, wistfully. “The moon. The sun and the night.” He caught Gilly's eye. As a Wilding, they shared many gods. “I learned this in Asshai. Every god conceived has lived those cursed shores. The city is a buffet of theology. Some hold more weight than others.”

“In Westeros, it is the Faith of the Seven.”

“A new cult – historically speaking. The trick, Tarly, is to find the true gods lurking beneath. To do that, you must look further back. Find out where the story began.”

“Is that what you did? Seek out the oldest religions looking for magic...”

“No indeed. I was looking for dragons,” he admitted, with a moment of cheer. “Finding the gods was an accident. Dragons, you see, worship at the same alter. Did you know that they sing to the stars? I heard one, curled around a dead Weirwood on the outskirts of Asshai, crooning at the darkness as if in prayer. I walked the smouldering flanks of the volcanoes behind Asshai. The mountains were breathing fire. Spewing it into the air. Poisoning the fog. It was there that I held an egg as it cracked. I felt the burned sand rise beneath my feet while a monster slithered under. The fires burning in the throats of those mountains made the most hideous screams. The sound,” he lifted his hands to his ears, “it haunts me still.”

“You are haunted by fire. I am haunted by ice...”

Marwyn nodded toward Gilly. “ _She_ is haunted by magic.”

###  ** KINGSROAD – THE NORTH **

Melisandre felt four hundred years in her aching bones as her horse trudged through the snow. The path North was a mess of mud and ice, worn nearly to ruin by the constant trail of supplies and soldiers. Most of the wagons were draped in Tyrell banners. Roses adorned the shields of the guards that marched beside, shivering in the fresh snow. The rest were fleeing violence in the South. War was threatening at every boundary. Farmers, raped by the Capital, escaped with their families while entire small Houses had decided to pledge their support for the rising families in the North in the hope of reward, bewitched by the tales of rising kings. The rest were murderers and thieves.

She did not ride alone. The Stark bannermen followed, led – oddly, by the Wilding king Tormund. He kept _both_ eyes on her, trotting up and down the road. If the Northerners following had objections they didn't voice them. Perhaps they were too cold to care about the Wildling.

“We'll make camp at the Long Lake,” he eventually said, signalling to the trail of men to take the fork toward the pale slither of ice to their right.

_Apt_ , thought Melisandre. It wasn't the first time a Wildling king had seen those frozen waters.

*~*~*

They made camp right in the centre. It was the Wildling's that showed the men of the Vale how to cut holes through the ice to fish while the Stark men hunted in a nearby wood. The camp divided into smaller fires, all shrouded in a cloud of smoke and mist that was pressed close to the earth by the freezing air.

Tormund sat opposite Melisandre, staring. She wondered if, like Jon Snow, he could see through her glamor.

“Red-haired cunts should stick together.”

_Perhaps not..._ Slowly, she lifted her gaze to his greying canopy of red hair. It was overwhelmed by his beard which had grown several inches as the cold took hold. “Such pigment is not common where you are from.” It was stated as a fact, not a question.

“I was always a bit of a bastard, me-self,” Tormund insisted. “Who knows what was fucked to make me.”

It was difficult not to admire his spirit – if not his choice of words. Even from the lake, they had a view of the  _Kingsroad_ and all the souls wandering toward the frozen edge of the world. Wordlessly, they sipped warmed wine and watched the sad trail of lights. “What drives men in such a desperate search?”

“Hope,” he replied simply. “Same thing tha' brought us here.” Tormund shoved his stick into the ice, chipping away aimlessly. “He was dead, you know. Gone. I seen some messed up shit beyond tha' wall but I _never_ seen tha'.”

“He spoke of it once,” she brought the cup to her lips. Her eyes were set on the fire and its dancing flames. She imagined it as her soul, growing smaller in a sea of ice. “I asked him what he saw. Nothing, Snow replied. Shadows. Whispers. Something else... Too terrible to say. It was sleeping in the dark. That's what awaits us – a crypt full of whispers. Lost songs. Creatures from our nightmares. I think the fright snapped him back to life. Snow was stolen from death and death will come for him.”

“Cheery company... 'ave a drink.”

###  ** NEFER, PREVIOUSLY SI QO THE GLORIOUS – ESSOS **

The sands gave way to rock. Shale collapsed into drifts of _ghostgrass_. Even that faded, strangled by the powerful roots of purple figs where the jungle prevailed. It existed in the last vestige of warmth behind a towering barrier of pastel cliffs that trapped the sun. On the other side of their ochre faces lay the frozen sea and beyond that – death.

_Nefer_ was buried among this mess of foliage, scattered between fallen mountains, ancient eruptions and an ice age whose long lost glaciers had torn great scars through the land. The lava tubes beneath were littered with ceilings made of spider roots and carpets of orange mushrooms. It was here that the party led by  _Yi Ti_ prince, Bu Gai, paused – seeking shelter from the thrum of insects.

The traveller from  _Lorath_ collapsed against the rough volcanic wall. He was drowning in his own sweat – his skin cracked from their weeks in the desert sun now turned to sticky dead sheets with the salt water. He peeled them from his arm with a grimace of pain. The fresh skin below burned.

Suddenly, he let out a screech and backed away from the depths of the cave toward the mouth where green light from the forest beckoned. Suspended from the ceiling by a an old length of chain was the skinned body of a  _Dothraki_ rider, swaying slowly with a sickening  _creak_ . Is ponytail hung nearly to the floor, matted with blood. Beneath, his horse had been butchered and its pieces arranged to form a spiral of blood on the ground.

“Like shell...” Bu Gai managed, his language had improved over the long journey. He held his hands up and twisted them to demonstrate. “Sea gods. Old gods. These prayers.”

The man from Lorath steadied himself and approached the corpses. He found the blood dry. There was evidence of festering flesh where the flies had come and gone. The meat had cured almost as if they were in a cellar. “Who?”

“N'ghaiese...” He nodded to some of their number, “Like Jogos Nai. Older. Fishermen.”

From that the traveller understood the  _N'ghaiese_ to be related to the horsemen of the plains. Their barbarity did not shock him, only the artful way they chose to display the dead. “A man thinks this is a ritual...” He muttered, speaking to himself as no one else in their group could understand his words. With the eyes of the hoard on him, he stalked around the pieces of the slaughtered horse. “A ceremony to-” he paused, catching Bu Gai's attention. “Water? Ocean?”

Bu Gai pointed North. “Great sea.”

“A ceremony to the ocean...” He squatted down to the dirt where a fresh flurry of mushrooms feasted on the corpse. “Or whatever lives beneath the waves.”

Bu Gai rose from the rock where he'd rested, gesturing to the others to follow. He covered the wound in his stomach with layers of smoked cloth and had the witches in his caravan hiss over him while he slept. They were gifts from his horse-lord counterpart, Pol Qo but all the witchcraft in the kingdom could not save his soul. The fresh bindings at least, slowed the inevitable.

Their enormous entourage was pulled out of the surrounding jungle and into the lava tube.

“Name?” Bu Gai gestured at the man's chest. They'd been travelling together for many weeks and, try as he might, the Prince of Yi Ti could not free himself of the traveller.

“A man has no name.” He was met with a great facade of confusion. “Lorath...” He decided upon instead, pointing at his own chest “A man's name is, 'Lorath'.”

Bu Gai nodded and grunted the name in the back of his throat. The language of  _Yi Ti_ was a slither of sounds, perfectly rounding into each other like a song. The Common Tongue was abrupt. He opened his hand, pointing deeper into the tunnels and said one word. “Nefer...”

Above ground, the city was a ruin of fallen temples and strange, life-like sculptures terrifying traders brave enough to seek them out. Beneath, the ground had been burrowed out, mostly by the natural movement of molten rock enhanced by long gone ice and rushing melt-water. There were enormous bodies of fresh water kept in perfectly still lakes that never saw the sun. Chambers where gold lay beside grain in equal measure, guarded by skeletons of sea-snakes the size of  _Braavosi_ trade ships. All of it abandoned.

“Something happened here...” Lorath muttered, as the group proceeded slowly. They all held flaming torches and found themselves showered in a constant drip from the ceiling which hung close to their heads. He stopped at the sea-serpent's skull. Fragments of its skin lay in the dirt, curled and bleached from age while the rest of the corpse had rotted into nothing leaving only a spine. Despite the wealth locked in the frequent caverns that adorned the passage, no one dared raise a hand to it.

“Cursed...” Bu Gai explained. “All.”

The far East was a festering wound of superstition and, after what Lorath had seen in the past year, he agreed with their paranoia. “Better that it be cursed and abandoned,” he continued, sticking close to the prince, “because its inhabitants are reported to be the most fearsome barbarians known to build cities. If you could call this a city.  _Nest_ feels more appropriate. This party is a few months late. Oh...  _That's_ Nefer.”

Lorath was brought to a stop by the abrupt end of the lava tube where it broke into a huge cavern. Big enough for a small city – or one of the  _Stepstones_ , it contained a maze-like collection of buildings forged from oily black stone. Their torches paled against the many giant urns scattered through the streets which never died, fuelled from gas beneath. The streets and restless waters of  _Nefer_ were crowded with corpses. Small with cone-shaped heads, their collective stench pushed the expedition backwards. A swarm of crabs shifted as they devoured the N'ghaiese. A mutter of prayers washed through the people.

Bu Gai stepped forward, about to undertake the twisting, black stairwell toward the city. Lorath's arm crossed his chest.

“No...”

The prince's lips cracked into a laugh. “Dead.” He replied simply. There was nothing to fear from the dead.

Crossing the mythological city was the only way to reach the harbour. As a horde, they entered the streets. Lorath touched the wall of the nearest building, feeling the waxy surface of the stone rub off onto his skin. It was melted. They found more offerings to the sea gods. Spirals of white shells were common, scattered across the ground. The bodies themselves were riddled with wounds. Knives. Spears. Swords. Rocks. All of these things had been used in acts of violence. Lorath was relieved. Whatever killed these people, it has nothing to do with the sickness that was ravaging the far East and Bu Gai's beautiful city. His hands were smacked away.

“Not touch dead!” Bu Gai insisted, grabbing Lorath by the collar of his shirt. “They sleep. We quiet.”

*~*~*

They picked their way along the streets. Lorath turned, catching sight of the near endless trail of their caravan. Animals. Children. Wagons. All of it was hauled along the cracked pathway. He was at the front with Bu Gai. The prince's hand kept brushing across the bandages on his stomach. His skin was paler than before. Discolouration left his veins a darker shade of blue.

On the other side they found the wall of the great sea temple. Its columns, made of the same black stone as the rest of the settlement, stretched all the way to the ceiling. Freezes had been carved into it displaying krakens, whales – ships smashed apart and sailors vanishing into waiting jaws beneath the waves. These were the polished faces screaming out at them. Lorath scratched madly at his piece of parchment, sketching what he could. They were truly in the depths of hell.

“Sea – listen...” Bu Gai whispered.

Indeed, the waves thrashed against the cliffs somewhere in the distance. The only way to the water for a hundred miles was through their great city's tunnels. They owned the water and the trade. The temple facade was a form of ornate gateway. The tunnel beyond was another cavity left behind by molten rock, grander than the last. It was walled in by a series of statues. They came in pairs, easily three times life size with their eyes fixed on their partner. Bu Gai stopped dead at the first set – recognition stilling him with fright. He said nothing. Proceeded into the dark with his torch and approached the next set of statues. This time he knelt down in front of one and placed his free hand on its stone feet.

“Name?” Lorath whispered, not sure how else to ask his question.

Bu Gai took another moment to finish his prayers. “Emperors...” he replied. “Kings...”

_His kings._ Kings of  _Yi Ti._ They littered the tunnel, each stepping further back into history. Bu Gai must have recognised the first few sets as his kin but as they delved toward the water, the statues grew larger and their forms, more spectacular. Some of them carried weapons. A great spear with inlaid diamonds. A bow cutting layers of stone fabric. A sword.

Lorath looked down. The gravel turned to cobblestone tiles inlaid with runes. The pretend stone weapons became  _real_ . One statue clutched a dagger like death with its blade cut from black glass. Finally, another pair. One man. One woman. The floor was a carpet of unreadable text. Purple jewels, amethysts of varying size – some as large as his fist, were locked together concealing the stone beneath so that she wore the gleaming curtain as a dress. Unlike the stoic faces of her descendants, the Amethyst Empress' face was aghast in agony. Her hands clasped her stomach. Rubies bled through the precious stones. Her face, contorted with rage, was set on the statue opposite.

He turned to the emperor. In one hand he held a sword whose tip touched the ground. In his other was the dagger that killed the empress. The Bloodstone Emperor. This  _must_ have been a city of  _Yi Ti_ . An old heart. Its centre had moved many times.

The final statues formed sentries at the exit. A great white lion and a pale dragon watched the seas.

“By the old gods and the new...” Lorath whispered, as a gust of salt caught his hair. It was freezing. The cold lashed against the chalk cliffs that lined the entire sea from left to right, as far as they could see. Their tunnel emerged on a beach where long jetties collapsed in various states of disrepair, stretched into the water. The debris from the white faces of the cliffs had almost become rock with the pressure of the waves. Then, in the distance on their right – the _Thousand Islands_ shrouded in sea mist.

Ice bergs loomed on the water line. Their ghostly forms ebbed at the horizon, slowly melting or crashing into the beach. The water was a dark green – cold. Lorath knew it well. These were exactly like the waters around his home. The plan had been to trade for a fleet of ships but there was no one to trade with and no boats.

“All this way – for nothing...” Lorath said in dismay. Bu Gai tapped him on the shoulder and pointed again to the East. Where the shadows of the _Thousand Islands_ met the sea, he saw ships...

###  ** THE RUINS OF VALYRIA – THE SMOKING SEA **

Quaithe tried to fight but sleep gripped her throat and forced her under.

She lay sprawled over Daario's bed, thrashing against the sheets as the pirate ship entered the first gasp of open water where it pulled away from the ruined islands of _Valyria._ The _Sunset Sea_ delved into the _Smoking Sea. Essos_ became _Westeros_.

The bloodstone dragged her deeper. Visions were baseless things, pits without end. Some dreamers had fallen forever, lost in the blur which left them collapsed in city streets, ranting at the moon with their eyes rolled back. _Asshai_ was full of the fallen. _She fought_. Grasping at reality.

History collapsed around her. Past the wars of _Westeros_. Beyond her silver-haired kin. Dragon wings. A roar of fire. Rubble beneath the water. The Doom bled away into nothing but forest and sea. She landed in the North-East amidst a jungle littered with enormous black stones, freshly cut. Chalk cliffs swept around them, separating the pocket of warmth from the frozen sea beyond where bergs wandered and seals lay in the sun.

Tiny, sprite-like people wrapped in leaves and flowers scampered away from another block of stone as it was dragged toward the beginnings of a building. In the distance came the cry of a dragon living in the cliffs. _Nefer_ , bustling soul of the sea-fairing _Empire of the Dawn,_ was at its beginning.

Together, the imps and the pale-skinned, fair-haired people of _Nefer_ planted _Weirwood_ seedlings in a giant spiral so that when grown their branches might twist together in a forest of bone. Quaithe reached toward one of the saplings but her dream shook and she moved beyond the cliffs to the beach. It swarmed with ships. The infant empire had grown. Its simple people were adorned with jewels from all over the world. Their ships lined dozens of docks as _Nefer_ became a trading city instead of a capital.

A pair of children played in the surf. A boy and girl. They ran from the water, shivering. The boy knelt first with his knees in the sand as he showed his sister a black jewel found in the waves. The bloodstone. A gift from the sea gods. The girl, older, tried to snatch the stone away but he pushed her to the ground and stormed off toward the cliffs. Quaithe noticed the small people watching from the caves, their faces untouched by time.

The boy became a man. He knelt under a twisted _Weirwood_ forest and chanted at the stars with the stone in his hands. A sickness came over the people of _Nefer_. Their minds darkened. Violence spread. A civil war wiped out a third. The prince whispered to his stone again. The winds grew colder. Ice capped the chalk mountains and the first snow dusted the forest.

The violent inhabitants turned on the _Children of the Forest_ , murdering them – skinning them and suspending their corpses from the trees they helped plant. The seas churned. Storms cracked over the city. Floods gouged their way through the black stone buildings until they were left fighting among the ruins of the city while the snows fell.

A man was captured and tied against a _Weirwood_. The _Children_ circled, chanting their own prayers until one approached with a shard of volcanic glass. The man screamed as it was plunged into his heart then held in the wound as magic ravaged his flesh. His eyes rolled back. The snows seeped into his skin and turned him to ice. He became a walking demon, stitched together with old magic. Released, he bent down and took hold of his sword. Its blade quivered and transformed into a point of ice. The _Children_ backed away as the _Other_ headed toward _Nefer_.

They have done this before.

When the prince came face to face with the _Other_ , he fled South with his army.

Snow encased the entire Northern shoreline. Ice bridged the _Plains of the Jogos Nai_ and in twenty years the top half of the empire became an impasse of Winter. Glaciers locked _The Mountains of the Morn_ and even _The Shadow Lands_ had their first snow. _Asshai_ glittered at the water's edge. A beacon of hope in a ravaged empire. The realms of men gathered at her gates, preparing for the final war.

The young girl was grown. She sat upon a black throne surrounded by murals of wyvern. Her silver hair curled to her waist while a thin crown of amethysts was draped over her head.

“ _Brother...” she addressed the veiled man in her court._

“ _Wife...” he replied, nudging his hood back. A fresh scar crossed his face, put there by a blade of ice. The wars outside raged._

“ _You should have left that thing where you found it. Our gods are old and full of malice. You were played by their will.”_

“ _I know,” he agreed. “It is too late to put the stone back.”_

“ _You are not the first plaything of the gods. The Pearl Emperor built a wall of ice and five forts to stop these creatures coming through the Land of the Shrykes many thousands of years ago.” She had been reading. Parchment lay scattered across the floor, tossed there in anger. “Their battle was finally won with the complete destruction of our ancestral home. It lays as a thousand islands in a vengeful sea because the gods willed it so. That is not an option for us.”_

“ _You've been dreaming,” he realised._

“ _You are not the only one who speaks with the gods. Our world is dying,” she replied, then stood and walked over to a table where a beautiful, milkglass sword had been laid out. Its blade was so sharp that it had scratched the pedestal. “The steel was mined in the West, picked out of the sands where a great star fell.”_

“ _Did your council of witches tell you to do this?” He could feel their presence behind the throne room door, gathered from all corners of the realm with their horse-gods and goat-gods; gods of the fish and gods of the jungle. None of them had the power to push back the snows._

_She shook her head and outstretched her hand. “The stone.” He was reluctant. “Don't you trust me, husband?”_

_That was a difficult question. “With the fate of the realm, yes.” With their lives? He relinquished the bloodstone which she set into the sword's hilt and folded the gold clasps in place. “And that, you believe, will be enough to fight them? You've not seen what I have.”_

“ _Of course not. Those creatures are born of magic.” The Amethyst empress held the sword up to the starlight raining in from the open roof of the temple. “We should have stayed here,” she lamented, of Asshai. “The North has been poison for us, as far back as history stretches.” The ground beneath them shuddered with another quake. The gods were restless. The dragons, too. “Now, this city will burn before the Winter is out.” She handed the sword to her husband and brother. “Blood magic can only be undone by blood magic. Only life can pay for death.”_

_He refused the sword. “You are mad!”_

“ _I am right...”_

_When the sword plunged through her heart, the Bloodstone Prince became an Emperor. He howled at the night while his sister bled over the floor. As he pulled the sword free, it caught alight – burning green with her blood. Snow fell with ash and the mountains burned._

Quaithe looked down to find her feet standing in a pool of blood. Instead of black walls, she was surrounded by animal skin. A _Dothraki_ tent fought against the snow with its fires stoked high and a cluster of witches trembling on the floor.

Then she woke.

###  ** THE SKIES ABOVE DORNE **

_The black throne loomed in front of Daenerys. Her dreams returned her here. Over and over. This time, a body lay in the centre of the room, covered in a layer of ash and ice. The pool of blood surrounding the woman was dry. Shadows crept in from the edges of the room. Necromancers and witches wailed at the sight. They slit their wrists over the corpse as the mountains erupted behind the city._

_Risen from death into something not-quite-life, the empress boarded a ship to the West while war ravaged the shores of The Shadow Lands. She felt it – when the blade finally sliced through the last ice demon. The ring of volcanoes erupted, setting a line of fire through the sky. Asshai turned from gold to black, poisoned by an explosion of magic until only its skeleton remained to haunt the shore._

_Her brother followed but standing on the foreign shore where the survivors made their home, he looked upon his sister's walking corpse and killed himself, falling on the milkglass sword. She and her followers retreated to an island locked by land and there they waited for several thousand years._

_Daenerys felt every one of those years brush by. The Red Mountains twisted and dunes moved like waves toward the sea. Starfall remained the same._

_Daenerys fell to the ground, knocked off balance. Snow. Ash. She looked up and saw open fields of ice where The Wall now stood. The silver woman walked toward the abyss. Daenerys tried to follow – stumbling forward. The ice cracked beneath her feet. A chasm appeared. For a moment she balanced on the edge, screaming at the empress – and then fell._

Jorah lunged after the queen, wrapping one arm around her as she walked straight off _Drogon's_ back into the air. The dragon, having sensed the danger, veered sharply, trying to land. Neither made it in time. Jorah caught Daenerys but lost his footing. Wildly, he grasped at one of _Drogon's_ horns. Brushed the ivory surface and then fell.

Daenerys woke from her vision with a rush of desert air and _Drogon's_ screams. She was in Jorah's arms and the pair were falling. They hit the cusp of a dune a moment later. Jorah growled at the impact – his pain mirrored immediately in the queen's shoulder. Then, they rolled – tumbling in a vicious spiral of sand and milkglass. _Drogon_ circled above, panicking.

Eventually their bodies dug into the sand and they stopped, coughing up sand. Jorah laid back, panting furiously with his heart racing. He swore at the old gods. Daenerys shook, certain she could see blood on her skin from her dreams.

“Not now...” Jorah raised a hand to stop her, as she tried to explain. He didn't care what she'd seen in the dark. Those visions were going to be the death of her – and him. “Look...”

Yronwood's men were at the edge of _The Sunspear_. The palace fires were lit. The sun was primed below the water line – about to lift from its nightly grave. A blush of orange lingered in the sky. Yronwood's army was about to breach the gates.

 


	67. Blood Tide

 

 

###  ** THE SUNSPEAR - DORNE **

“Bloody hell... There's a hoard of short-arse mountain-folk at the gates. That, coming from _me_...” Tyrion added, sliding off the window sill. Perching on them was a habit made necessary by the unusual statue of the Martells and in turn, their architecture. Grand and sufficiently emblazoned with wealth enough to please even a Lannister, it left Tyrion at a permanent disadvantage.

He claimed the final item of armour from the table and strapped it into place, tightening the belts to stop the steel knocking together. To this he armed himself with an assortment of daggers, concealing them in the folds. Tyrion and war were well acquainted. Familiarity did nothing to stop the pace of his heart. He considered Doran's gift of a golden spear – picking it up if only so he could slide his palms across its perfect figure. Reverently, he returned it to the table.

“Are you honestly going to stand there brooding by the fire?” Tyrion continued, as silence persisted. “Varys?” He turned to the other man. “End of the world swiftly approaching...”

Unable to elicit a response, Tyrion tossed a handful of spiced salt into the fire, making it flare dramatically with a mirage of fleeting colour. Varys startled into life, stepping away from the dancing embers.

“We have to go. The war has begun. Gods above,” Tyrion exclaimed, “are you _drinking_?”

Amazed, Tyrion pried the empty cup from Varys' hand.

“Drunken debauchery is my role,” he assured the eunuch, disappointed to find the cup dry. He left it to one side. He was worried about Varys. The man was mistrustful of all forms of fortune. Either the gods were mocking him or cursing him. He wondered what those flames whispered to cause such thoughts to fester in a meticulously rational mind. “Varys, we've seen worse than this.”

“Have we?” Varys finally croaked out a reply, destitute in his thoughts.

Tyrion's head tilted back in amusement. “Gods, yes! Meereen.”

The arch of his eyebrow forced him to submit. “Meereen...” Varys agreed. Bolstered with a delusional breed of hope, he waved away one of Tyrion's pre-offered daggers. “I have my own.”

 _Of course he did..._ Tyrion sized up the Spider. “Shall we? It would be poor manners indeed if we were late for a war we started.”

“I still cannot decide.”

“On what?” Tyrion lingered, one hand on the door.

The wine in his blood made Varys reflect on what lay ahead. “If this this is the moment that our children's children will sing about or if the last Targaryen conquest of Westeros is about to end in a most inexplicable and embarrassing footnote.”

“...my children, perhaps. Children's children.” He corrected himself.

“Pardon?”

“I wouldn't worry, Varys, you're not going to _have_ any grandchildren to disappoint. _Go on_ , crack a smile. I don't want to die next to anything except brevity. The Mountain Tribes of The Vale. Now _there_ was an army worth fighting with.”

For all his insight there were times when Varys truly struggled to pick fact from fiction where Tyrion was concerned.

On their way to meet Prince Doran they passed rows of Dornish soldiers. Scattered through the palace, even Tyrion had to admit that their beauty and ferocity fought in equal measure. He watched as their freshly oiled tanned skin glistened in the firelight. Each warrior carried a gold-plated shield inlaid with snake motifs that matched their individual spears. _Tears of Lys_ , Tyrion noted, dripping from the tips.

The Queen's armies were assembling outside, exceeding their host city in number. This war was mostly their fault so Tyrion made sure that there was no cause for resentment in the ranks. Without Martell protection, they were destined to be another set of heads on spikes. He need not have worried. The Dornish were spoiling for a fight and loved the dragon queen for bringing it right to their door.

“Princes Doran, Quentyn...” Tyrion bowed to each as they entered the war room.

Doran occupied his wheeled-chair, resting his arm calmly on the table where a board had been set up to track the progress of battle. Quentyn was preparing to leave and join his army. The young prince wore barely anything compared to the guards. His chest was waxed and drenched in scented oil which made his tattoos come alive. They were extensive, covering his body like a garnish. A few good hours in the desert sun and _Rhaegal_ might just make a meal of him.

A wide belt of pearl leather inset with sapphires was the closest item he could compare to armour. Tyrion didn't know if was stupid to enter battle unprotected or brilliant to rile up his men with this show of confidence.

“Are you ready for war, gentlemen?” Doran asked, gesturing to the table where all the pieces had been laid out. There was even a pair of dusty dragon figurines that someone had found in the bottom of a box. One silver, the other black.

Tyrion eyed the board with suspicion. He was yet to take part in a war where the bloodshed remained within such neat confines. “I'll have to be. Yronwood's men are flanking your Western edge, deliberately leaving the North-Eastern exits of the city unchallenged.”

“Common. He hopes our people will flee and force open the gates.”

“...and, they won't?”

Quentyn stepped forward. “If they attempt to flee, they die.” By his hand, no doubt. “That is our way.”

_This is going to be a blood bath_ , Tyrion thought quietly. “The dragon is circling curiously over the approaching army but as yet, Rhaegal hasn't displayed any aggressive behaviour. It's never attacked anything that wasn't food without the queen's command.”

A battle horn boomed through the air. Bells rang on every clock tower. Finally, the gong inside the palace was struck three times. Varys' eyes closed. He despised the sound of bells.

“I have somewhere else to be. Uncle.” Quentyn knelt before his prince, reciting an old Dornish saying before he left to join his men.

“My nephew is a keen soldier,” Doran said fondly, once Quentyn was out of sight. “It's always the strong that die. Men like me survive. This, I think, amuses the gods.”

“I couldn't agree with you more. A cripple, an imp and a eunuch – think how much fun the theatres will have when this tale is done. It'll be fodder for every whorehouse from here to MolesTown.” Tyrion wandered over to the war table to examine the battle. “The main gates will fall. You've structured the streets to guide Yronwood's men along here and here. Why? It's as if you want him to reach the palace.”

“You'll have to trust me, Lord Tyrion. Your queen may have led us to this war but I intend to finish it.”

*~*~*

Quentyn strode through the streets. They were lined by his soldiers – their armour glistening as the sun lifted out of the sea. The cool of night began to burn away and the last sea-mists pulled back into the ocean. Above, the shadow of the queen's dragon wandered aimlessly.

In front stood the grandest of the city's doors. Nearly as high as the wall itself, it was held closed by a series of iron bars and hard wood planks that had seen many hoards.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

The steady crush of Yronwood's battering ram beat against the other side. Quentyn watched the bolts tremble. Every now and then, one dislodged and fell into the dust. The Martells fought their wars from street to street – never in the open. The _Dothraki_ and _Unsullied_ struggled with this and so were concentrated in the open areas where they might fight to deadliest effect. The horselords mounted their beasts, ready to rage up and down the alleys.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

Quentyn mounted his horse and withdrew a pair of huge scimitars. He wielded them at the same time, spinning them playfully in front of his men until they catcalled and cheered, hammering their shields.  _He loved this._ Lived for it. What was life if not a dance with death? This one had a rhythm that made the dust shiver.  _Wake the gods. Let them see._

He whistled back at his men and tugged the reigns of his horse tight, rearing the beast onto its back legs.

*~*~*

It was impossible to push the city doors inwards as they were set into depressions of stone locked to the  _Sunspear_ . Instead, once the hinges were loose, Yronwood had men scale the outside and hammer metal hooks directly into the wood. Below, men by their hundreds heaved against the ropes – pulling the door away from the wall. It held out for hours – resisting their attempts to burn or smash their way through.

Finally – with a dying gasp, the last piece of ironwood buckled and the colossal door surged backwards, slanting away from the wall. For one fragile moment it balanced on its own, held as if by magic. The Yronwood army dropped their ropes in panic and fled perpendicular to the falling door, chased by its shadow.

The door crashed into the sand with a boom that shook the city. A cloud of dust covered everything, suffocating Yronwood's army. In the chaos, Quentyn's men unleashed a hail of poisoned arrows. Many fell pointlessly into the dust but enough found their mark to fill the air with screams.

*~*~*

“What's happening?” Daenerys asked, keeping her eyes on the city as she and Jorah struggled back up the dune to retrieve _Dawn_. The sword had been left where it fell and was now glittering like a jewel near the top. They were almost there.

“The city is breached,” Jorah replied. The sand was loose. With every step they sank to their knees. It saved their life in the fall but threatened to kill them now with exhaustion. “This is how the Dornish fight. They like close quarters. It is why neither the Targaryens nor the Westerosi kingdoms ever claimed their crown.” Jorah heaved his limbs out of the sand, forcing himself forward. He could see the milkglass blade ahead.

“ _Rhaegal_ could burn them all but he won't...” she watched helplessly as her child shadowed the city.

Jorah plucked  _Dawn_ from the dune. “How could he possibly know to attack the army?” Jorah asked. “He's never been in war before. If you want him to fight, he must be taught.” He slid the sword safely away next to  _Snowflake_ . “Khaleesi?”

The queen was praying with her hands lifted toward the city.  _Drogon,_ who had been looking for somewhere to land ever since they'd fallen from his back, was drawn down from the sky. Tentatively the dragon touched the shifting sands, using his tail to anchor his body as he landed in front of Daenerys. Tides of loose sand fell away from his feet. Beneath, it was a deeper shade of red.

Jorah watched, mesmerised. “Your skill at calling him as improved greatly.”

Daenerys used the horns on  _Drogon's_ head to haul herself onto his neck before sliding to her usual perch between his shoulder blades. Jorah went to follow, moving down the dune toward the dragon when he was hit in the face with a wall of sand flicked up by  _Drogon's_ tail. He fell backwards, landing on the dune as the dragon flapped its wings sharply and lifted off the ground. Tears ran from his eyes to combat the grit. He wiped them away with what was left of his sleeve.

“Drogon!” He bellowed at the dragon. It ignored him, lifting higher. Jorah caught sight of the queen. Her eyes were cold with determination, set like stones in their resolve. He knew then what she intended. “No!” Jorah shouted, stumbling forward. “Khaleesi!” He tripped and fell, rolling several times before landing on his back. Jorah threw his body onto his knees bellowing, _“Khaleesi!”_

The dragon veered calmly and turned toward the  _Sunspear_ .

His queen did not look back, leaving Jorah screaming her name to the desert.

*~*~*

The  _Dothraki_ raved madly as they rode in a stampede from street to street. Their curved swords took head after head from Yronwood's men (and a few of Martell's in the fray). They swung them around by their hair, parading the bloodied trophies which some had tied to their horses. Their war chants haunted the ancient walls of the  _Sunspear_ until even the Martell army avoided meeting them in the alleyways.

The theatrics of the initial surge died away. Yronwood's men were slowed by tiny battles that ravaged every street. In close quarters, their strength in number was cut down as quickly as their men. Entire passageways were cut off by stoic walls of  _Unsullied_ fighters which did not flinch in the face of death. They held their ground, killing any that tried to pass and no Yronwood man could bypass their wall of steel. The result was a river of carnage tracking toward the palace.

Lord Yronwood himself entered the city, flanked by his best soldiers. Their role as eternal guardians had filled them with a false sense of power. Now, faced with the fury of a defending force, they were learning the harsh reality of the aggressor. Taking a city and defending a mountain pass were different beasts. Yronwood thought of Prince Doran, nesting safely in his web above the city. His tower was visible from every street. Oh... How he dreamed of tossing the cripple from his perch...

*~*~*

Black Scale, the new commander of the  _Unsullied_ , crossed the deck of his ship. Earlier, he had commanded all the queen's vessels to pull away from the harbour into the safety of the bay where they glistened on the still waters. If Yronwood's men had ships, he could not see them. The only ship left in port was Black Scale's – kept as a last hope in case the queen's army was forced to flee.

The rest of the ships turned with the wind toward the South, leaving their gun holes facing the beach. Black Scale ordered the amber flag raised. He watched the frail piece of material catch in the light breeze as it was dragged into the air. As soon as it reached the top he felt the  _whir_ of canon fire whip past his ship before striking the remaining number of Yronwood's army left outside the city wall. Each shot was accompanied by a  _boom_ , like clasps of thunder before a storm. It echoed in the timber beneath his feet. Again and again. The same sound that haunted his nightmares from the day he was snatched out of his home.

*~*~*

Jorah watched flashes appear on the water and accompanying clouds of dust where the canons struck. Their  _booms_ thundered cross the dunes, shaking sand free. His legs collapsed beneath him as he watched Daenerys ride her dragon toward the city besieged by war.

Truly, she was a Targaryen now.

*~*~*

Cubes of flesh bounced off the  _Sunspear's outer_ walls. Yronwood's men were being chopped apart by canon fire from the dragon queen's fleet. A general screamed at the men, ordering them to push into the city and take shelter behind the walls. The ships would not fire on the Dornish city except in accident. Several times a stray shot embedded in the city walls, tearing holes through the dirt and stone. Men cried out, ducking away from the falling bricks.

*~*~*

The Dornish people sank into the pits and tunnels below the city. Their warrens ran for miles, littered with traps and stores of food that had kept them alive during the last great sieges. In silence, they sat in the lamplight with the ground shaking above.

Missandei had been sent to the catacombs along with the wolf girl. The Northern girl ran off immediately and vanished into the crowds. “Arya!” She called, ducking between the bodies. “Arya!” Sand bags were lifted over her head and shoved into the cavity to shore up the wall. “Arya!” Missandei crouched so that she could look through the maze of legs. There – the Stark girl darting toward the tunnels.

She followed, pushing her way through the Dornish shoulder first. By the time she reached the passage Arya was long gone.  _“Where does this lead?”_ She asked one of the locals in their native language.

“ _To the city streets.”_

To the heart of violence. Missandei had no choice but to follow.

*~*~*

Missandei left before the killing began. Assassins were common in Dorne, working for as many masters as there were stars. In the enclosed space of the underground vaults they began to panic. The first to draw blood did so quietly, slicing their victim's throat in the shadows before laying the body out of sight. It did not remain this way for long. Women killed women, lunging at their prey across the room until a general rage of fighting broke out. The locals of the  _Sunspear_ outnumbered the violent foreigners by a great number but the panic killed as many as it saved.

The room became a mob. By the end, anyone who wasn't a Dornishman met their gods. This was their way. Safety in violence.

*~*~*

Arya surfaced onto the streets in an abandoned courtyard. The remnants of a market flapped in the wind while a nearby clash of spears told her that the fighting was swiftly approaching. She hoisted herself out from the tunnel and did her best to hide the entrance. Brushing dust off her hands, she scampered over to the safety of a supporting wall and listened carefully.

A murderous war cry, almost inhuman in its malevolence, was accompanied by a rush of hooves. She inched toward an archway. Those horses appeared from nowhere, sweeping along between the buildings in a storm of sand. The  _Dothraki_ left the severed heads of their enemies rolling on the street behind, dropped or tossed aside. One rolled through the archway where she hid. Its glass eyes stared into nothing. All Arya saw was a mask.

Arya turned. She heard a disturbance from the tunnel. Fearing that someone had followed, she moved from the square.  _There had to be a way out of this city_ , she thought.  _A way to leave and head North while no one was looking for her._ Arya knew exactly why the dragon queen and her Lannister lord had decided to keep her safe. She was their pawn. A bargaining chip for some future war. Now was her time to head Doran's words and  _run_ .

*~*~*

Yronwood's men cornered a small group of horselords. Their horses panicked in the enclosed space. The beasts whinnied, kicking the walls with their hooves. Slamming their bodies against the stone. Crushing the legs of their riders into the  _Sunspear's_ unforgiving fascade.

“Now!” Yronwood bellowed, pointing his sword toward the _Dothraki_.

A hail of spears ripped either side and plunged into beast and man alike. Those that refused to fall were pulled down and torn open until man and horse became the same pile of flesh. Yronwood's men cheered. Too soon. A company of  _Unsullied_ approached from the other street. It took all their speed to flee. Yronwood made it to the next street and found shelter behind bags of grain but most of his men were cut down and joined the horselords in the next life.

This day, the gods were gifted with many new souls. It was a feast.

*~*~*

Varys preferred to follow the progress of the war by staring out the window rather than hovering by the board. He always found it better to respond to reality rather than someone else's interpretation of it.

Doran waited as the pieces were moved by his generals and their runners. Each time they entered the room they were covered in fresh coats of blood. One collapsed before he could move his piece and died right there.

Tyrion followed both. There was something to be learned from the static play of tokens. You could be objective about pieces of polished stone but he wasn't immune to the terror beneath their tower.

“The queen's ships are out of play,” Varys muttered from the window, as their canon's stilled. “The last of Yronwood's men are in the city. Anything now would only damage that wall further.” He moved Doran's pieces himself. “It's sustained three hits.”

“Four,” Doran corrected. “Another shot hit right in the centre of our ocean side. We're taking in some flooding as the tide rises. We sent word to the tunnels but our messenger did not return.”

“A poor shot...” Varys conceded, of his queen's ship.

“An accident,” Doran shrugged. “It is of no matter. Her navy served us well. All the fighters are in the city.”

Varys leaned against the ledge. Indeed, Doran was correct. All of Yronwood's men were now flowing through the streets in pre-ordained tributaries where waiting packs of warriors chipped away at their number. The  _Dothraki_ were almost wild. They were incapable of holding formation so Quentyn had given them  _none_ . Instead, they had free will to maraud as they wished, instilling unpredictable fear in their enemy.

“Wait – there's a group of men at the city doors. Horses. Doran?” Varys turned to the crippled prince, who seemed unconcerned.

“Our men are lifting the doors back into place.”

Varys looked again and saw chains quickly threaded through pre-carved holds in the door then attached to the  _Sunspear's_ wall. Teams of horses dragged it out of the sand, locking all of Yronwood's men in the city. Trapping them.

“You're not looking for a victory over Yronwood...” Varys said slowly, realising his error. “This is a massacre.” For the first time Varys met Doran's eyes and caught a flicker of the cruel intelligence that had helped him keep a crown and peace in the realm for longer than anyone. He masqueraded as a benevolent ruler but he was a cunning brute whose murderous hand was covered in layers of silk. Varys wondered, was this _all_ of his orchestration? Using a Targaryen feud with Westeros to clear out his enemies... Without the queen's armies, he could _never_ have hoped to win. Now, he looked like the hero – a man forced to fend off an unreasonable force and, if he succeeded, _Warden of the Stone Way_. Another rung on the ladder.

“This dance between the sea and mountains has gone on long enough,” Doran replied, without quite admitting guilt. “It was begun long before my time.”

Varys was left to watch the trap close. As soon as the door was in place, the bulk of the  _Unsullied_ , who had waited – silent – in the buildings nearby, stormed the street. They moved like a silver fish, rippling in the sun as they followed Yronwood's army.

Tyrion, who was hovering around the board, smirked.

“Something amuses you, Lord Tyrion?” Doran asked.

“I did not expect you to use your own palace as the killing fields, that is all,” he replied. “The Kings of Westeros protect their throne room as if it were their heart. You have opened the flood gates and beckoned Yronwood's army to your door.”

“Of course,” Doran replied.

“It serves two purposes, I think,” Tyrion extrapolated, amused by Doran's unique slant on war. He'd learned more standing here than from any of his maesters and their dusty sermons. “Firstly, you limit damage to the city which helps with a swift recovery and lets you bounce back against any opportunistic aggressors which I'm guessing, in a land of so many princes, is a real threat. Secondly... You have the most control over the palace – all the better for your fight. It forces Yronwood to meet you in the field where it's least advantageous for him. High risk, to be sure but I dare say brilliant.”

Doran bowed his head slightly at Tyrion's skill. “Perhaps you should have been king.”

Varys side-eyed the Lannister and Martell. “You two are about to get your wish. The first wave of men have found this street. They'll be at the palace doors shortly.”

Tyrion shook his head at the almost clockwork obedience of Yronwood to Doran's will. “I have one question... How did you  _know_ that they would be so easily led to your trap?”

“The plan is not mine but Quentyn's,” Doran explained. “He has lived under Yronwood's roof for long enough to understand their ways. That is _why_ he was sent to their mountain hold despite his dislike of the place. Know your enemy – love them enough to understand them.”

_Ruthless_ was a word that came to Tyrion's mind. No wonder poor Elia had been sent to Rhaegar's side.

*~*~*

Travellers often referred to the tower Doran chose to call his palace an an aging ruin compared to Dorne's other beauties but it had something the sprawling palaces did not.

War traps.

Designed by the  _Rhoynar_ and maintained by the Martells, it was a maze of violence. The residents were confined to a series of safe rooms while highly trained fighters patrolled in the open, waiting for the first brave aggressors to meet their end. Among them were Doran's daughter Arianne and his vicious nieces – the Sandsnakes.

Arianne perched on the balustrade of a sweeping staircase. Three of the eldest cousins were scattered in front. They paced restlessly, tapping the bases of their spears against the stone. It echoed in the chamber above whose sole adornment was an iron chandelier dripping tears of wax.

“They will come,” Arianne muttered, tired of their unrest. Eight sets of near identical eyes set upon her. The ghost of Oberyn lingered in their depths.

“I thought you were keen on the Yronwood prince,” one of them tormented, later, as the assault began on the front door of the palace. It was several levels below. “Cletus? Yes... Until he was savaged by that -”

“Enough,” Arianne hushed her casually. “My father is determined never to find a suitor so what does it matter? Your time is better spent worrying about the army at our door.”

The Sandsnake shrugged. “Never fear, princess. I know what you prefer.” Her eyes drifted to a shadow at the corner of the room. The young man residing in the darkness cut a corner and slipped down a set of stairs before the light could touch him. Arianne said nothing, confirming what everyone in the kingdom already knew.

“Think what you like.” Arianne tried to temper her emotion – remain calm like her father in the face of provocation but there were broad strokes of her mother too.

*~*~*

“Foolish girl!” Missandei caught Arya by her jacket and yanked her sharply from her perch. The young girl fell, hitting the dirt at Missandei's feet. “This is _war_. What were you thinking? You _weren't_ thinking!”

Arya rolled onto her side and coughed up a mouthful of sand. Swords crashed together several streets over. Another rush of hooves approached. Somewhere in the distance, they heard the  _smash_ of the door locking back into place.

“Do you _want_ to die out here, Arya Stark? Is that what your father gave his head for? Is that what your living sister and brother will read on the wings of a raven? All you've seen – survived – and you what, think you'll take your chances on foot in a battle-torn city? You know _nothing_ or violence, girl.” She reached forward, grabbing her by the arm. “Back to the tunnels.”

There was no point fighting. Missandei was stronger than she looked. They approached the market square and the entrance to the tunnel network but were forced backwards by a hoard of Yronwood's men assembling in the centre. Two were knelt in the dirt, inspecting the iron grate where an unusual flurry of footprints had given away the secret entrance.

Arya's heart skipped in her chest as two of them lifted the lid and set it to one side. She watched in horror as they descended, heading into the tunnels that would lead them straight to the defenceless people cowering below.

“We have to do something!” Arya hissed, trying to wriggle free of Missandei's grip.

“Fifteen soldiers?” She replied. “Do _what_?”

“Find someone. Go after them. Distract them. Something...”

“To save those people or your own guilt?” She asked curiously.

Arya thought the question to be cruel but perhaps that's how things were in the East. “Does the reason matter?”

A long moment stretched between Arya and Missandei where the woman sized up the girl, trying not to become lost in her eyes. They were like two slices of ice. The eyes of a wolf. “You'll do as I say?” Arya nodded and Missandei's grip loosened, her voice low. “If I am killed for this, my gods will come for you.”

Missandei spent a moment collecting urns from the market place. She gave two to Arya hold and kept a third for herself. Then, with a final glance to the sky and a prayer that she might look up on it again, she sank into the tunnel. The Stark girl followed. She heard the small impact of her feet in the earth. Without a torch, they relied on the retreating light from the grate. Soon, that became a faded halo in the dark. Like dragons, they shuffled with their ears pricked to the darkness. Salt wind scratched its way past them. Charcoal from a hundred torches clung to the ceiling above. The sound of leather boots grew louder and the distant chatter of the hidden city approached. They could not be far.

*~*~*

“Prince Doran...” Varys abandoned his position at the window. “How large did you say Yronwood's fleet was?”

For the first time Doran showed surprise. “He does not have one.”

“Mmm...” Varys sank his hands into his sleeves. “That's what I thought.”

Behind, Tyrion spied what the Spider had. “Then who is this?”

The crest of the horizon was marred by tiny specks of an approaching fleet. Doran used the table to help drag himself from his chair. Awkwardly, he crossed the room – taking Tyrion's offered hand until he reached the window. His body might be a wreck but his eyes were sharp. He could see the ships sailing in from the East.

“Those are not Dornish ships,” he agreed. “Nor have they come from Westeros. There-” He pointed. Silk hung from his withered arm. He was a frail man draped in finery with a brilliant mind. “-a dragon.”

Tyrion and Varys nearly fell. Doran was correct. Soaring above the ships was a shadow in the sky.

*~*~*

Daenerys dug her feet between the horns on  _Drogon's_ back. He reared up as he flew, sniffing the air with an excitement she'd never sensed in him before. His wings thrashed roughly in the wind, propelling him toward the  _Sunspear_ .

_Rhaegal_ caught sight of his brother and began performing startling dives in the air. To impress his sibling the green dragon climbed as high as he dared then folded in his wings and fell like a stone. When the city walls were in reach he opened them again and veered sharply sending a wave of screams from the soldiers warring in the streets.

Daenerys held on as  _Drogon_ copied his brother – although less dramatically. He began by circling the city, scouting the lay of the land before heading out into the water.

“No!” Daenerys shouted at the dragon. “Back toward the city! Drogon! Drogon!”

The pair of dragons abandoned the  _Sunspear_ and wove through the queen's ships.  _Rhaegal_ particularly made sure to touch a few masts on the way through in a playful gesture. It took a few more minutes before Daenerys realised why her dragons were fleeing out to sea.

“ _Viserion..._ ” she breathed.

There he was – so beautiful. A shard of sunlight in the sky. He'd grown – larger than _Rhaegal_ but not as much as _Drogon_. His scales caught all the colours of fire and yet his grace on the air was reserved. He held back his power and maintained a guard over the fleet of ships he led.

A _huge_ fleet.

Daenerys rode _Drogon_ as he sank lower on approach. Pirate flags from all across the East rippled on their masts.

*~*~*

Quentyn choked back a mouthful of blood. None of it was his. With an earthen grunt he kicked the Yronwood soldier so hard in his open wound that the rest of his gut splashed over the ground. His men averted their eyes at the sickening image. Quentyn merely wiped his mouth and fished his blade out of the man's torso.

*~*~*

Many of the _Dothraki_ fought with dragonglass that had been refashioned. When Yronwood swords met those charcoal blades the two crashed together with a hollow _clink_. Sharper – stronger, sometimes the dragonglass shattered the Dornish blades. Many believed them to be _cursed_. Savages with sickly weapons.

Many of them went mad with the sudden rush of war. This is what they breathed. What they lived. What they needed... Violence was their outlet in a harsh world.

They rounded another corner of an unnamed street. Heads roll back with guttural cries. The Yronwood men, trapped against an oncoming wall of _Unsullied_ , turned to face the horselords. Some prayed. Most knelt with their spears angled toward the soft bodies of the horses. None expected those beasts to jump so high that they cleared the poisoned tips. Mid-flight, several _Dothraki_ leaped from horseback and landed, blade first, into the soldiers.

Quentyn watched from one of the flat rooftops. He was scouting the field of battle when he paused to admire the flare with which the savages tore down their enemies. Now he understood how nomads could threaten the free world of the East and why sprawling cities cowered at their own gates with offerings of gold and women.

“Leave them,” he said, stopping one of his soldiers from heading in toward the fight. “They don't need anyone's help.”

*~*~*

Daario Naharis climbed to the front of his ship, tangling his arms in the ropes to inch closer to the approaching dragons.

There she was... Daenerys, clinging to her black demon. They had been apart longer than they were ever together. So long that part of her had become a myth in his mind.

As she drew near, he lifted his hand in greeting. There was no way for any of the dragons to land upon the ships – not any more. Instead, _Drogon_ and _Rhaegal_ fell in line with _Viserion_ and as three terrifying beasts, they flew toward the _Sunspear_ with a fleet of pirates at their heels.

*~*~*

Daenerys leaned over _Drogon's_ side. The Pirate King was dressed in rags held up with belts. A golden sword, nearly as large as he was tall, was strung across his back. Despite the long, reddish beard and wild hair tied back off his face there was no mistaking the figure. Daario was alive.

*~*~*

Doran set the spyglass down with confusion knotted across his tanned skin. “There are three dragons in the sky. Your queen rides with this fleet.”

“If they were hostile we can safely assume that she would have Drogon burn them.” Tyrion replied, placing a new marker on the board to represent the mysterious fleet.

“Friend or foe, they are no good to Yronwood at the moment.”

*~*~*

The palace doors fell easily. Their ailing wood buckled after a few decent hits and most of it was left as an explosion of splinters. The first men through took the stairs at the entrance in their stride. Swords up. Mouths open in victorious cry. A pair of blade swung in – one from each side. Those men were still alive when their bodies split in two and tumbled to the ground.

That gave the others pause. As a group, they stumbled back to the ruined door to take in the halved corpses of their kin. Some were shouting or twitching helplessly while the stone became a veneer of mountain blood. The blades themselves worked only once and were left in full view, dripping against the wall.

The first brave men were forced to duck underneath. Blood smeared onto their shoulders. Their eyes darted to the surrounding walls in case another set of knives lay in wait. They stepped into the great marble foyer with its golden sun and spear set into the floor. Beneath, the ground trembled. It was not stone but fine plaster – painted meticulously – which crumbled under their feet. A dozen men fell into the pit of spikes below where centuries of bones had been left to rot. They took much longer to die.

*~*~*

Missandei caught up with Yronwood's men. Their torches licked the passage in front as they moved at speed toward the defenceless Dornishmen. She took one of the small pottery containers stolen from the market and threw it toward the ceiling above the men. It hit the rock and shattered, drenching them in lamp oil. It was set alight by their torches and with a sudden _whoosh_ of flame, the men began to scream. She tossed a second immediately, compounding the violent flames.

Arya and Missandei backed away as the heat reached their faces. They were spotted through the flames as the dying men fell to the ground. “There!” One of them yelled, lifting his sword. They momentarily forgot their victims ahead and stormed over the corpses of their fallen.

The last jar was thrown. It smashed in front of them but failed to catch alight. Arya withdrew _Needle_ and brandished the sliver of metal. She was pushed back by the older woman who had knives in both hands. Short blades. No match for a sword.

The first of the men to reach Missandei was a bear of a creature, nearly two heads taller than her and wide with an armour of battered steel sheets that ground against each other as he moved. His eyes were wild in the dying flames behind. In one hand he held a broadsword – in the other, his torch. He swung with the torch first, attempting to blind the young foreign woman.

Missandei ducked and veered to the side, shoving one of her knives into the gap at the back of the soldier's knees. It found a piece of flesh. A wash of blood. The soldier grunted and kicked her away leaving the knife in place. She rolled through the dirt with one dagger remaining. Arya braced herself, standing over Missandei ready to fight the enormous warrior. He laughed at the sight. His enormous sword scraped the ceiling as he lifted it overhead and prepared to strike down the child. Arya's feet shifted in the dirt, bracing her hips over her ankles as she'd been taught. A moment before their swords met, Missandei raised her dagger and took the full force of the soldier's swing. Instead of knocking her to the ground or shattering her blade – the soldier's sword came to an abrupt halt. The metal quivered, letting out a song.

A moment of confusion stilled the soldier. He found his blade lifted as the woman stood – pushing him backwards with impossible strength. “What...” he went to say but she knocked away his sword. He felt the blade in the back of his knee again – burning. A pool of blood was forming at his boot as he stumbled. The other men were with him now, watching in confusion as the largest of their number clutched his chest. _Poison_. His knees hit the ground. His sword clattered beside. Missandei flipped the dagger across her palm.

*~*~*

The walls of the palace shook. Tyrion placed both hands on the stone, feeling the wounds for himself. “They're inside,” he whispered.

The last of Doran's advisors flowed in through the doors before the ornate but sturdy pair were boarded shut, trapping everyone in the war room for their safety.

“Now we must wait,” Doran moved away from the board. There would be no more updates now. The screams of the dead and sound of swords in the air was all they had to gauge the battle.

Tyrion and Varys were uneasy, clustered near the window as if it offered some hope of escape. It did not, of course. Freedom was an illusion.

*~*~*

Armed with the fallen soldier's broadsword, Missandei backed slowly down the tunnel – drawing the men away from the women and children. She heard Arya keep step behind. There were seven of them left but in the narrow passage only two could stand together – one if they wished to fight.

Everything about Missandei had changed. The way she moved. The way she breathed. The way her eyes set themselves upon the men. She was calm in the face of battle, lifting the heavy sword like an extension of her arm.

As brave as Arya was she knew, hand to hand against plated armour, she could not win. They could run... The men were burdened with too much steel to follow. “Missandei!” Arya hissed.

Missandei's eyes were black. Missandei was _gone_. She was a face on a wall. A plaything of Death.

“A girl must run...”

*~*~*

One arm of Yronwood's army had been cut off from the palace and found itself lost, pushed around the city streets with a hoard of _Dothraki_ giving chase. After hours spent on the run, being picked off at every turn, they found the harbour and poured onto the dockets. Moored in front was a single ship with a snarly dragon as its figurehead. Men spilled over the side, trying to cut the ropes and unfurl the sails but the desperate soldiers rushed it – launching themselves at the vessel. Like a nest of spiders, they clawed their way onto the deck. _Unsullied_ swords met them.

Those that made it on board parried through spears until inevitability struck and their bodies – living and dead, were thrown into the harbour where sharks circled, feasting on the blood tide.

The dragons saw the battle. _Drogon_ sensed Daenerys' will and was the first to break ranks. He descended to the water line, letting his talons scrape the tips of waves as he closed in on the stricken ship. Bolstered by the familiar calls of the _Dothraki_ , _Drogon_ opened his jaws. On his first pass across the jetty he took three men at once, crushing them with his rows of teeth – half chewing the armour and leather before letting them drop into the water.

_Viserion_ and  _Rhaegal_ copied, each taking a pass until Yronwood's men were begging the  _Unsullied_ to give them sanctuary on the boat.

A curtain of blood washed over Daenerys' face as  _Viserion_ and  _Rhaegal_ ripped a Yronwood man apart above her. The rest soaked into  _Drogon's_ back.  _Drogon_ landed on the jetty. Part of it collapsed under his weight, its broken spine sagging into the water. The red tide lapped at the dragon's hind quarters. Daenerys thought it looked more like royal silk that ocean – except for the bodies which floated across the surface. Some surged in the water as sharks fought over them. Even the  _Unsullied,_ used to the vision of their queen on dragon-back, were disturbed by the indiscriminate violence of her children.

*~*~*

Lord Yronwood reached the palace doors. He found them torn apart and the raiding party slaughtered near or just inside the palace. Traps. He'd suspected as much of his Martell friends. They were fond of indirect methods of slaughter. Yronwood prefered to look his enemy in the eye as the blade went in. It was more satisfying that way.

“No – easy...” He lifted his sword to stop some of his men from edging into the palace. “They want us inside. There's no reason to rush.”

In the streets behind, Yronwood could hear the rest of his army. They'd arrive soon and following them, the combined armies of Doran and his Dragon whore.

*~*~*

Tyrion perched on the window sill, playing with death as one leg draped over the side. It dangled in the breeze while the rest of his body baked in the midday sun. Soon, the orb would shift to the other side of the tower and leave them in shadow.

Something cracked.

He frowned, eyeing his immediate surrounds. He thought it might have been the ledge of stone preparing to give way but his fears were unfounded. The palace tower had stood for several thousand years and it wasn't going anywhere in a hurry.

_Crack._

It happened again – this time followed by a rumble in the air. He looked back into the room but neither Varys nor Doran responded. Varys was brooding in a corner, cursing magic and prophecy for bringing him to this place. Doran sat at his board.

_Crack..._

The noise was outside. Tyrion gripped hold of the wall and leaned further out the window. The streets below overflowed with Yronwood's men. A few of them looked up to see him balanced on the outside of the tower. He was too high for sword or arrow to reach so for the moment they ignored him and focused on the next assault. They were about to be bookended by Quentyn's men.  _Unsullied_ streamed in from the left.  _Dothraki_ screamed and butchered their way from the sea and the Dornish army closed in from the right. Soon, it would be a murderous field.

_Crack!_

This time Tyrion saw... The second tower of the  _Sunspear_ was slender and much taller than the  _Tower of the Sun_ where they were safely ensconced. An earthquake several generations ago had left the  _Spear Tower_ with a pronounced lean. Now, the ominous crack was splitting further – bleeding up through the layers of stone. The ground on one side of it shook as an explosion rocked the foundations. Yronwood must have sent men into the tunnels to destabilise the tower but why?

Tyrion got his answer in a ruthless avalanche of rock as the tower buckled. Right before his eyes, the  _Spear Tower_ began to slide. At first it was graceful – the crack became a clear cut allowing the top two-thirds of the tower to slip backwards. Below, Yronwood's men raced toward the palace for shelter. Quentyn's were not so lucky. They were caught off guard as bricks rained down, striking the men. Terrified screams were quickly obliterated as the top of the tower shuddered, caught by gravity and pulled suddenly into free-fall. It rolled slightly in the air – hurtling toward Tyrion. He shrieked and rolled off the sill and landed in the room with a clamour of steel. He cowered behind the wall. A rage of ash poured out of the impact. It rose, like smoke from a fire, smothering the city in a creation of ash so tall and wild it put the lost tower to shame. The bottom portion remained standing. A broken spike of useless stone with its innards laid bare.

Hundreds of Yronwood's men died but nearly  _all_ of Quentyn's were cut off from the palace, swaying the odds in the reckless lord's favour. It would take them hours to clear a path through the rubble leaving Yronwood alone with Doran's palace.

“I wonder where he learned that?” Varys asked, all too coolly. He, like everything else in the room, was covered in a mist of white dust. Stray pieces of brick had been thrown into their room – knocking one of the guards unconscious.

“Fool!” Doran coughed violently. He was struck with disbelief. “He crushed his own men!”

“And now he'll calmly raid your palace...” Varys finished. “Lord Yronwood is many things but so far I've been presented with nothing worth calling him a fool.” _He was the fool_ , thought Varys cruelly of himself. All his life he'd fought against the wills of magic and destiny. His recent choice to follow had led to this place where he'd almost certainly die.

*~*~*

Arya tore through the tunnels. She fled blindly under a huge explosion which knocked her face first into the dirt. She rolled to the side – crawled backwards as the roof above collapsed in places and sunlight cut through. Dirt suffocated the air. She picked herself up and took a fork on the left. The occasional lanterns left hanging in the tunnel swayed violently from side to side. One unhooked and smashed to the ground in front. Then another. Dying one at a time. Their struggling light reminded her of another tunnel. That one led to a hall of faces. She could still see them in her dreams. Column upon column of stretched skin and the eyes of the lost, waiting to wake.

The next quake was not an explosion. Arya wasn't just knocked to the ground – she was  _thrown_ from side to side, smashing into one of the lanterns. Hot wax showered her, seeping through her cotton shirt. It burned. Arya cried out, clutching at her clothes as she was tossed into the other wall. Over and over – twice more until the building above came to rest. The roof of the tunnel held but the air was filled with uncertain sounds of collapse.

Exhausted, she let her head rest on the ground. Her arms were outstretched, one of them clutching  _Needle_ . If she just lay here, would she become part of the caves? Consumed by the darkness. Was there peace here?

*~*~*

Calm, Lord Yronwood held a cloth over his mouth as the dust cleared. He entered the palace with his men carefully following in his footsteps. He touched the bloodied edge of the swinging blades. He scanned the victims writhing on spikes inside the pit and ordered an archer to finish off those whose chests still rose. The last trap was still in place. He paused, indicating for his men to stay were they were.

*~*~*

“ _No! Drogon! No!”_ The queen was ignored by her dragon as the largest of the three turned on the ship. At first it was chasing Yronwood men who clung to the side in the hopes of salvation. It reared up – placing its front two paws on the rail to steady itself while it closed its jaws on flesh and steel. The ship canted sharply under the dragon's weight. The sudden movement sent a wave of bodies, most of them belonging to the queen, toward _Drogon's_ jaws.

The inexperienced dragon startled as they collided with his snout. Some were crushed immediately. Others, screaming, grabbed onto ropes and tried to haul themselves to safety. A moment later  _Drogon_ opened his throat.

Daenerys felt heat swell between her thighs before the stream of fire annihilated everything on the deck. Warriors fell howling into the red sea. The flames caught in the sails, taking hold so fast they seemed to evaporate. The deck caught too and then, after minutes that dragged for hours in the queen's mind, the butchery was ended when the oil reserves exploded.

*~*~*

Daario covered his eyes as the ship became a fireball. He watched  _Drogon_ forced backwards into the water and his siblings circle above, raining fire from their mouths. The queen, clinging to his back, went under and emerged a moment later with her silver hair dyed red...

*~*~*

Beneath the shallow water, Daenerys found the world in a permanent  _hush_ . Through the blood soaked sea she could see the flames billowing over the surface – caressing the waves with its plumes of heat. The two could not mix and so remained separated by an invisible veil.

Pieces of wood hit the surface, piercing like arrows before beginning their slow spiral towards the depths. She held her breath. Gripped  _Drogon_ fiercely. The moment of serenity started to fade as he moved his legs.  _Drogon_ found the sandy floor of the harbour and kicked off, propelling his body and the queen into the air just as the fire died away.

She gasped.

_Unsullied_ called to her. Whispered prayers. Cried them with real tears the world thought them incapable of shedding. She could not even reach a hand to them for fear of falling from  _Drogon's_ back.

*~*~*

Black Scale surfaced. Instead of reaching for the burning ship, he swam through the saturated water toward the second jetty. It stood abandoned in the water with ladders within reach. Those of his men who could swim followed their commander. They were calm, keeping their movements from breaking the surface. As long as they moved quietly, the sharks savaging bodies left them alone.

He was the first onto the jetty and immediately turned to help the others out of the water. A few remaining Yronwood tried to follow but Black Scale, sword-less, dragged them onto the jetty only so that he could smash their skulls open.

Many of the queen's men survived but not her ship. It was too risky to bring another one in from the harbour to pick them up so Black Scale led his party of men toward the city – scavenging weapons as they went.

*~*~*

Quaithe's dream blurred with reality. Red waters lapped at the  _Sunspear_ and this time they were accompanied by real screams.

“Is it as you saw?” Daario asked the sorceress. “Of course it is. You have that look about you... I've seen it on the queen before.”

She held the rail to stop herself from trembling. All three dragons lost interest in the wreck. They returned to the air, playing above the city. For all the violence, the  _Sunspear_ still glistened magnificently – a star brought to halt.

 


	68. Sword of the Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Autumn Skye. ❤

 

 

###  **THE SUNSPEAR - DORNE**

Jorah witnessed hell unfold.

The _Spear Tower_ fell like a frost-encrusted pine, slipping through the forest. Dust from its corpse seethed against the streets then rose over the trembling buildings, partially obscuring their broken bones with ash. Fires burned along the edge of the harbour, lighting the underside of the morbid cloud that cast the entire peninsula into shadow. Fragments of the queen's decimated ship were sucked in rip-tides toward the ocean, scattering across the surface like pieces of a fallen star.

Lapis became ruby as the waters around the _Sunspear_ turned. A _Blood Tide_ , as the Mormonts called it. One had enveloped _Bear Island_ when Jorah was an infant – its feasting gods took his mother's soul. His father had always said that the waters housed angry spirits and restless things that time forgot. Under the waves, those creatures waited for men to go to war and then fed on their dead. There were no words for gods like those. They'd been left nameless. Too old for songs.

“ _Two gods – always,”_ Dacey had teased Jorah, when he was big enough to hold a sword. She'd knock him across the back of the knees, send his face into the snow, then continue with her lesson. _“Locked in a mad spiral. One lived in the ocean where the depths birthed fire and blood. It set to war against the Storm. A doomed embrace followed of vicious winds, howling waves and fogs that covered continents. The Storm's eyes became ravens and its vengeance the ice locked waters.”_

Her stories ended while they huddled in _Bear Island's_ sea caves with thunder on the air and bruises on his limbs. Jorah would never forget her stories or the wild look in her eyes. He used to wonder if she'd seen a face in the depths that night she'd near drowned.

As another building in the _Dornish_ city crumbled, Jorah knew that he could not leave Daenerys alone in battle. Without a horse, the city was half a day's walk by which time the war would be decided either way.

With no hope at all, Jorah stepped off the sweeping dune onto the flat where the water drained across the stretch of sand leaving a watery mirror of the sun on its surface. Desperation closed his eyes. He felt heat torch his skin. Salt deepen his cracked hide. The wind offered a moment of respite then turned and snapped his cheek with its scorching tail. Then he noticed something else – something _alive_ – shifting in the darkness.

*~*~*

Daario remained at his perch, tangled in the rigging while his crew of pirates navigated the queen's scattered fleet, shouting and hauling sails into place. The queen's ships stayed static as the pirate fleet wove through, intending to make port at the _Sunspear_ and join the rampage. Daario did not attempt to stop them. They'd been at sea for months and ached for a slaughter.

One _Unsullied_ commander hoisted signal flags urging the pirates to stop but the only colours Daario intended to fly today were the pirate colours. He was _captain_. If he wished to retain that position he _had_ to appear strong. Pirates were a lot like _Dothraki_. _No_ , he reflected, _they are like the Iron Born – his kin._

“Strange...” Quaithe mused, as _Viserion_ lifted his golden head and turned toward the North, breaking formation with his brothers. His huge eyes searched the sand where a scattering of caravans and residents headed steadily up the beach. Then, quite inexplicably, the dragon dove and veered sharply for the shore. His wings dipped low, cutting pathways through the water which was thrown up in foaming jets.

“Viserion?” Daario murmured sadly to the wind. His fists tightened on the ropes as he leaned over the bow as far as he dared, letting the spray kick up onto his face.

Quaithe tilted her head causing her golden mask to sing. “He is not your dragon,” she cautioned.

“This is a thing I understand...” Daario replied sharply. Salt covered his face and stung his eyes. “I call his name because he is not following the queen's commands. See? She is shouting too.”

A tiny silver woman screamed from the monstrous form of her largest dragon. Quaithe observed carefully. None of the dragons appeared to be within her control. “Dragons are wilful...”

“I understand this also.” Daario wondered if the queen did. “'Soul' it is called, where I came from. Children who refuse to settle – run wild on the seas and strike other children – either win or they die. A few become kings.”

“And the rest?”

“Fodder for the sea.” Daario stepped back and fell onto deck. He crossed the ship, following _Viserion's_ progress as he landed on the tide line in a blinding vision of gold.

*~*~*

Jorah did not open his eyes until he felt the dragon's talons dig into the sand.

“Viserion...”

More than the other two, _Viserion_ had been his creature. Jorah's shoulder was _Viserion's_ perch and his hands a second set of wings to scoop the infant dragon into the air. He was not a cub any longer. Loose in the world, _Viserion_ had grown to immense proportions. His scales had taken on the colour of chalk cliffs, marbled with brown, red and white among the gold. He shared _Rhaegal's_ script-like etchings on his scales but none of the battle injuries of his two brothers. He was unmarred by the world – ethereal in his perfection.

...and he had come when Jorah called.

Calmly and without fear, Jorah approached. The waters around their feet ran red, lapping gently at the shore. When he drew close, _Viserion_ leaned in and nudged Jorah's chest with his snout – knocking the knight into the waters.

Jorah laughed. “You foolish thing...” he scolded.

The dragon tried again, barely ghosting Jorah's shirt. His nostrils opened with a trail of smoke. Jorah relented, reaching out to run his hand up and down the tip of his snout. A crackle of sounds akin to a purr reverberated through rows of terrifying fangs.

“Were you off having adventures?” he asked the creature. “All this time... We worried – _I worried_.”

The dragon could not reply. Instead, it tilted its head and set a golden eye upon the knight. Its lid slid over, blinking peacefully.

“You've come, which means that you understand what I need, old friend...” Jorah continued, his voice soft.

Jorah pried himself from the water and paced slowly around to the left of the dragon where the water was shallow. A moment of doubt. Unsaddled and unknown, Jorah considered the task of mounting _Viserion._ _Drogon's_ back was awash with stray horns which he and the queen used as a ladder. _Viserion_ was smooth with neat rows of horns across the top of his head and in twin lines down his back – both out of reach.

_Viserion_ lowered his body, grazing his belly on the sand. His wing scooped forward, flattening into a veil of skin at Jorah's feet. Hesitant, his boot ventured onto the edge. The skin sagged slightly, taking the knight's weight.  _Viserion_ curled his claws deeper into the sand. Another step. Another. Soon he approached the first joint on the wing. Jorah fell to his arse, reaching frantically for the knuckle of bone as the dragon suddenly folded his wing sending the knight into a tumble.

“Viserion!” Jorah shouted. The world spun wildly around him. Desert became sky. Dunes bled into glimpses of the smouldering city. Jorah realised his mistake as the dragon turned and tilted his wing, forcing Jorah to roll all the way across the wing and onto its golden back where his hands found a row of spines. _Viserion_ chirped. Jorah shifted, searching for a proper hold before the dragon began its run down the beach.

_Trust_ .

It was something Jorah was going to have to rediscover.

*~*~*

Quentyn dove off the partially collapsed building – reaching wildly for the ledge in front. Behind, the tower broke apart, falling in pieces the size of carts which smashed into the street. One hit at Quentyn's heels, vaporising the platform where'd stood a moment before. _Boom._ He felt the air shake as his hands caught the ledge.

Slipped.

He fell with his palms against the wall in search of purchase where there was only rock. They were raw by the time he caught an iron bar left exposed by the destruction. Blood trickled down his wrists to his forearms as he swung. A thick, impenetrable cloud of dust swirled over Quentyn, choking his lungs. He pressed his head against the wall, shut his eyes and gripped tight leaving his body to hang. Darkness came over the _Sunspear_. More buildings crumbled – this time unseen. He felt as if the whole city had sunk beneath the ocean.

Quentyn dripped sweat and blood in equal measure. His arms pained. Limbs weakened until his entire world was reduced to the wall in front and the bar in his hands. The metal was heating in the flames of an unseen fire. Would he survive the fall? There was no way to tell. A screech cut through the sounds of war. It was unholy. Dragons.  _Daenerys._ Targaryens riding monsters. What folly led him here?

When he finally fell, it was in silence. His eyes remained fixed on the smoke, never daring to see what lay beneath.

Quentyn landed with a soft  _thud_ on a pile of bodies. A sea of glass eyes looked into nowhere. Their scalps were scattered over the ground in a morbid halo. Quentyn recoiled and scrambled to his knees. His body was soaked by their grisly cruor. The dust cleared to the sound of hooves.

_Dothraki_ revelled in the calamity – rounding up terrified soldiers. Yronwood's men tried to yield but there was no word for 'yield' in  _Dothraki_ . One of the largest riders dismounted his horse and came at Quentyn, brandishing his bare hands that were the size of Quentyn's head. His hair was braided, reaching to the base of his spine. It swayed as he walked.

“Wait!” Quentyn backed away, stumbling over the ruined limbs of the victims beneath. “I am the queen's prince – _your_ queen's prince.” He pleaded in the Common Tongue, then again in High Valyrian. They did not understand. These _Dothraki_ were wild. Nothing like the ones she'd paraded in front of him earlier. Quentyn looked around but his spear and swords were gone. He withdrew a small dagger, holding it up. Standing toe to toe, Quentyn felt like a child. The first strike of the _Dothraki's_ paw sent him tumbling from the pile. The second disarmed him. He heard the knife bounce away in the street. The next hit was death – of this he was certain. He searched for words he might whisper to the gods but surely there were no gods left in the burning city.

“ _The Khaleesi commands that this one is protected...”_

The  _Dothraki_ warrior turned to find Black Scale staring him down – dripping wet with a company of  _Unsullied_ and  _Dothraki_ at his back. They carried a single, torn dragon banner. Black Scale's mastery of  _Dothraki_ was enough to sway the warrior. Instead of violence, the  _Dothraki_ offered Quentyn his hand, helping him to his feet. Quentyn nodded and then gave the enormous man a playful slap on the arm. Best not to hold grudges among allies the size of horses.

“Thank you,” Quentyn added, turning to Black Scale when the warrior lost interest. “I thought that one might have my scalp for his saddle.”

“That one would,” Black Scale assured the young prince. “Where are your men, Prince Quentyn?”

“Scattered through the streets when the tower fell. Yronwood has cut our forces off from the palace leaving him free to sack it. We have to get past this barrier of rubble or the war for Westeros will die here, in Dorne.”

Black Scale's men organised the roving  _Dothraki_ into teams while Martell's men emerged from the rubble. “Then we best clear a path through to the palace. The flags...” Black Scale added later, arms around a huge stone. “Why not all the same?”

Quentyn glanced over to the pile of bodies. There were shreds of fabric amongst them. Most belonged to house Yronwood but there were others. “Houses Jordayne and Blackmont rode with Yronwoord and a few minor lords. They are old enemies. Hatred has been left to fester in perfumed smoke for a thousand years. There is a reason foreigners refer to Dorne as a pit of vipers. Wars of the West are like shards of flint for the Dornish. When tonight ends, the empire of Dorne will be a different beast.”

*~*~*

A brush of black wings landed on the sill. Varys caught the raven and prised a message from its leg. It ruffled its mane of feathers, shivering free of their dust.

“Are you honestly taking ravens at a time like this?” Tyrion asked, incredulously.

“It may well be the last raven I see,” Varys defended. “A final chance to protect the realm from itself. The limbs of Westeros are dragging apart to the point of tearing. A broken, indefensible realm with a mutilated iron sculpture at its heart is no future.”

“Spare me...” Tyrion groaned, before Prince Doran caught his eye. “Nobel as your intent is, there are things of a more imminent concern... Varys...” No answer. “Who writes to you?”

“A cub,” he replied.

“The Mormont?”

“The girl?” Prince Doran interceded, wheeling his chair closer. “I hear that one has ice for a soul and makes grown men tremble.” He was amused at the thought. Perhaps he should send Quentyn North to make her acquaintance. That boy could do with a bit of tempering. “A niece, is she not, of the queen's knight?”

Varys dipped his head. “She is. Twice as fierce but what can you expect of a child named after tragedy...”

Prince Doran looked away.  _Lyanna Stark_ . “My sister and all her children died for that name. There are days when I wish I was more like Oberyn. He, at least, brushed his fingertips against vengeance. Mine cannot hold a sword let alone slit a Lannister throat.” His weakened limbs did not speak for his raging soul.

Tyrion  _Lannister_ moved closer. “That, he did. I was shown more kindness from your brother – a relative stranger – than my family. I don't mind that Oberyn's kindness found roots in revenge. When I was sitting alone in a cell under the Red Keep pondering the veil beyond the sword, he held a flame to the darkness and burdened me with hope.  _Have hope_ , Prince Doran. Should we survive this, I swear, on whatever honour I have left, you will taste the same vengeance as Oberyn.”

Doran was amazed. “You cheer on the death of your kin? Even the boy king?”

_No, thought Tyrion, not the boy. Not his brother either._ “And what are the Spider's last words to be?” he turned to ask Varys, instead of answering the prince's question.

Varys blew the ink dry. “Sound advice, I hope. I have brought it to Lady Mormont's attention that when the snows drift over the Riverlands and she finds her people starving, homeless and bloody, she'll be needing friends in the South. Sometimes you have to remind the Northern folk about the concept of the realm. It's the blood of the First Men. I think it drives them a little mad. Certainly it stirs their violence.”

“If half the stories I've heard of the North are true, I do not blame their madness.” Doran replied, one eye on the Lannister.

“Half?” Tyrion laughed, wishing he'd brought the wine from his quarters. “A thousand foot wall was not built on rumour. Trust me, I've seen it. Placed both my hands on it. Whatever is up in the North, it is as real as the ice keeping it at bay.”

A clash of swords in the palace beyond disturbed the room. Doran shifted uneasily in his chair. Varys tied his message to the raven and tossed it out the window to safety. “You  _ache_ to join the fray...” Varys rumbled curiously, when he noticed Doran pine at the door.

“My curse, Lord Varys, is that I must allow my children to fight my battles. Mine and Oberyn's...”

*~*~*

Sand trapped in the palace foundations streamed from fresh cracks in the ailing ceiling. It formed pale waterfalls across the empty throne room transforming the gaping area it into a tomb. Gerold Dayne listened to the soft  _hiss_ against the stone. Clouds of smoke outside dismantled allowing sunlight onto the stained-glass windows which lined the right hand wall. It illuminated with false suns – spears driven through their hearts. Vipers tangled in love nests. Ships fighting dragons. A fallen star... The history of  _Dorne_ was laid bare in shattered colour. It was a selective history that failed to mention droughts that dragged on for decades and  _Dornish_ bones left to rot in the sands, enduring the endless torment of a salted tide.

Armed with a pair of slender blades, Gerold waited patiently in the centre of the room. He was guarded by a pair of stone snakes, carved mid-strike, reaching almost to the ceiling. Most of the candles from the iron chandeliers lay scattered on the floor in a blood-bath of wax, shaken free by the destruction of the city. One beast of iron had been left to hang by a single chain.

“Must you...” Gerold Dayne sighed, when he could stand the sound no more.

Obara kicked one of the candles across the black slate. Losing control, it clipped the edge of a stair and plunged into a deafening descent, landing next to the sullen figure.

“You are not half so pretty as you think you are...” he added, with a drawl as though the air itself offended him.

“And what are you – the evening star? No – that's not it... I'm trying to remember it now, you told us once – before we left you tied to that tavern door. _Darkstar_ – that was it – or _'Collapsedstar'_ as Tyene put it, when your head went into the feed trough. What use is a star which gives no light and drags the whole sky toward it? You are an odd creature, Dayne – like the rest of your kind.”

Obara followed her candle down the stairs. Daynes were strange in every way – pale and tall with violet eyes. Darker than Targaryen eyes and older. Traditionally Dayne's boasted silver hair but Gerold was born with a streak of black straight through his. Obara thought it made him resemble a painted fish and told him so as often as she could. He had the temperament for it. Cold. Cruel. Brooding. All the things Obara looked for in a man but Gerold had an untenable quality that disturbed her.

“Last chance, Obara, to run back to your mother and hide.” He warned, as she drew closer.

Obara brandished her spear in Gerold's direction. Poison swelled at its edge. “Mother is  _not_ hiding!”

A delicate nerve.... “Then where is she – the great Ellaria Sand? Skulking about in the desert, last I heard. Some might even say she  _wants_ Prince Doran to fall today. There's nothing like a good war to shake up the line of succession.”

“Take that back...”

“Am I right?”

“Take it _back_...” Her dark eyes fixed on him. Honour was all a bastard had to count as reputation. “Now!” When he refused, Obara swung her spear. He crossed his swords, easily blocking her attempt. “Take it back!” She leaned her weight onto the swords. Their eyes met.

“Your blood runs hot and thick, Obara. Don't let it get you killed.” Gerold pushed her off easily.

Obara kicked the candle in frustration but did not attack again. “At least I am here for Dorne,” she added with a hiss, taking her final position near the entrance where the doors were bolted shut. The hammering of swords grew beyond. “There's a name for what drives you.  _Chaos_ .”

There certainly  _was_ a name driving Darkstar and that name was Arianne Martell.

*~*~*

“Are you _certain_ they're chasing us?” asked Arianne. She was shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the Sandsnakes, racing through the interior of the palace with a hoard of Yronwood's men furiously pursuing. They'd taken great offence to the ambush at the servants' quarters and chased them with hot oil still running down their skin. Some smouldered. Arianne could smell the terrible stench of burned flesh on the air.

One of the Sandsnakes ducked as a knife clipped the wall beside her head, sending a shower of sparks across her face. “They are following!”

An immense stone pillar had falling across the hallway in front. The Sandsnakes scooted under it, vanishing like vipers in the sand while Arianne vaulted over its smooth surface, rolling at the top before sliding down the other side. It slowed their pursuers giving them enough time to burst through the doors into the throne room where Obara and Darkstar lay in wait. They bolted up the stairs and took their positions, egging Yronwood's men into the trap while the other two prepared to close the doors.

Once inside, Yronwood's men found themselves surrounded. They were unmoved, bolstered by the confidence of overwhelming numbers. Fighting broke out amid the raining sands. It was artful. Poetic even, as swords and spears danced.

Obara was the most skilled of the snakes. She hooked her foot beneath the candle on the ground and kicked it into a soldier's face. As he stumbled backwards, she pushed her foot-long spear directly through his skull. She let him hang there, suspended on her blade while she watched the life drain from his eyes. Gerold looked up as his sword sliced carelessly across a Yronwood breastplate. He cut the soldier down while his eyes remained firmly on Obara's brutality. She  _enjoyed_ the blood. As the body slid off her spear, her eyes became heavy with a sheen of delight.

A clash of blades to his left stole Gerold's attention. He finished off the man at his feet and turned to find Arianne corned on the throne itself, standing on the heart of  _Dorne_ with a pack of Yronwood circling. Her Martell name drove them wild, stirring the bloody swords in their hands.

“Ari!” Gerold called across the room in uncharacteristic panic. She caught his gaze for a moment before she was enveloped by a storm of blades. Darkstar pushed an approaching soldier into the path of Obara – who snickered at the gift – then he climbed the stone steps three at a time, vaulting toward the pack of men.

At first Arianne growled at his presence but soon one of the swords snapped her spear and she was left parrying with two short lengths of wood. She struck one of them with the edge of the spear, pushing the poison in deep. At once, the soldier's heart stopped. His sword clattered to the ground. His face turned purple and foam frothed from his lips. The next thing she felt was a warm splash across the back of her knees. Arianne saw her fate in Darkstar's eyes. They widened in horror as her body fell forward. Her veins, opened behind her knees, poured blood over the throne. A waiting sword pierced her lung as she impaled herself, still clutching the ends of her spear. Her last view was of the slate – black and endless as the night.

In a rage, Darkstar destroyed the rest of the men – tearing limbs off with his sword, embedding blades in skulls as if they were cracked snake eggs left to rot in the sands. When the last was dead and the Sandsnakes retreated to the shadows at the edge of the room, Darkstar climbed to the throne where Arianne lay, mutilated and still like one of the images caught in glass. He could not bear to touch her.

His face sharpened, as though cut by glaciers. Violet eyes brimmed with fire. The delicate balance between sanity and madness wavered. Daynes were the blood of  _Asshai_ . If Targaryens turned on the flip of a coin then Daynes balanced at the tip of a sword.

*~*~*

Pirates swarmed the docks. Some of them carried Targaryen banners, torn and lashed to pieces of rubble. Daario joined them, unsheathing his huge _Valyrian_ sword. It slid through the lingering smoke, catching the light. Any wandering Yronwood were attacked, stripped and robbed.

Daario climbed onto the broken body of the tower, elevating himself above the field. Balanced precariously on the peak he saw Daenerys on dragon-back, circling the remaining tower. _Drogon_ was snapping at the stone, lost in a frenzy.

_Viserion_ lay beneath, shaking off a layer of rubble. He was feasting on Yronwood bodies, calmly chirping while Black Scale helped Quentyn move stones away from the palace doors. They were nearly inside.

*~*~*

Varys lay pressed against the tower wall – arms outstretched – eyes closed as  _Drogon_ made another pass at them. His long, black claws scraped against the rock, tearing pieces off. The remnants fell into the room with Doran, Tyrion, Varys and some nervous guards. Traditionally, when dragons came to Dorne the city vanished underground...

“War has stirred him up!” Tyrion shouted, over the roar. “He can smell us.”

Doran gripped the war table whose pieces lay scattered across the ground. “The queen still rides him.”

Tyrion was about to reply when the great doors behind him suddenly shook with a tremendous crash. “Yronwood!” They all turned to the doors as the battering ram on the other side backed up for another strike. “Quick!” Tyrion cried, “The table – push the table!”

Every able body took hold of the slab of ironwood and heaved it over the stone. Black wings brushed over the window again, blotting out the sun in a sickening rhythm.

*~*~*

Jorah wrapped his arm in a dead man's cloak and pushed his elbow through a window. From high on the rubble, there was a considerable drop into the room below. He undid the leathers holding his swords and carefully dropped them into the abyss. Jorah followed, suspending himself from a wooden ledge beneath the window before scaling the throne room's wall. He landed on a fresh pile of sand and was greeted with a tomb. As he affixed his weapons he counted the bodies of a recent battle.

His eyes were drawn to the throne where a beautiful young woman was draped, broken and red across the chair. Arianne Martell. Jorah knew that face.

He took  _Snowflake_ and touched the tip of the ice-sword to the blade in her chest. The steel shattered and she fell forward into Jorah's waiting arms. He laid her backwards until she was seated in the throne then closed her eyes and left her to the desert gods.

*~*~*

Arya lay against the dirt of the tunnel. The remaining lanterns flickered wildly, dying as their glass containers played with death. Above, the world rumbled. Fragments of light and smoke spilled in through fresh holes torn in the ceiling. Wailing children faded into the background as Missandei approached – first as a shadow, stepping between the halos of light cast by the lanterns. Many of them had broken and set the ground alight in small pools of fire.

The young wolf scrambled to her feet, lifting _Needle_. This time she was sure...

Missandei reached up with her free hand and ran her fingers along the underside of her jaw, pausing to pick at a line of flesh. Then – _slowly -_ she pealed away the kind face of the _Naathi_ scribe.

Tears lined her lashes. “Jaqen H'ghar...” Arya whispered.

This time, he did not refuse his name or protest it. Instead, he stretched his arms and bowed lightly at the heiress of _Winterfell_. “As a girl sees.”

“What happened to the woman?”

Jaqen shrugged. “The one called Missandei followed a eunuch to the _House of Black and White_ – saw something she should not have...”

Arya considered this then narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “That does not explain why you took her face and followed me here...”

“No – a girl is correct.” Though he offered no further explanation. Jaqen watched the girl's tiny, sharp sword sway back and forth, hovering between his heart and throat. “What are you thinking, little wolf?” He asked curiously. “That you will kill a man or-” To his infinite surprise, Jaqen was halted mid-thought by a flurry of arms around his waist. He knelt on instinct, dropping his lantern. With the ghost of someone long past, he lifted the Stark from the ground. Re-united, they said nothing.

*~*~*

_Drogon_ lost interest in the tower and, with Daenerys screaming at his back, took off toward the sea where he dipped and brushed his wings against the water. He opened his mouth, tearing hollows in the surface with bursts of fire.  _Rhaegal_ , who had remained calm wading in the water near the docks, picked off the corpses and occasional shark. Some of the  _Unsullied_ who were used to feeding him drifted in closer on row boats and tried to coax him away from the city.

*~*~*

With the threat of the dragon removed from the window, Varys returned to the gaping hole in the side of the tower and peered down at the city below. He was met with the filthy face of a girl, climbing into the window.

“Arya Stark!” Varys near fell to the ground in shock as the Ned Stark's offspring scrambled into the room. She was covered in scratches and soot from the tunnels beneath the city.

Tyrion smirked despite the endless thrash of Yronwood's men against the door. “You have your brother's talent for climbing,” Tyrion observed. “I'm not sure that would please your mother.”

“My mother is dead,” Arya snapped, eyeing everyone in the room – marking them. “And my brother didn't fall. He never falls.”

“He did fall,” Tyrion assured her. “And likely lays with your mother.”

This time it was Arya's turn to curl the edge of her lip. Rickon slept with mother. Bran – Bran  _dreamed_ . “They'll break through that door soon,” she observed, watching the hinges shudder. They would give way long before the slabs of wood.

“You were safer beneath the city,” Prince Doran said, amazed to find the Stark girl within his walls after he'd warned her to flee.

“You haven't seen what's beneath the city.” Arya did not volunteer the information. Instead, she took up perch on the sill and watched the door tremble. It was a storm, building. A swell of violence that made the air thick. She was entranced by it. When she looked upon the faces in the room Arya saw no one at all. Faceless corpses. A lion. A spider. A snake. They were nothing to the snow.

*~*~*

Darkstar carved his way through the sweeping tails of Yronwood's men. They clogged the corridors of the palace, tearing at the walls, pulverising previous relics – massacring the workers. He waited until they funnelled into the narrow stretches and then unleashed his fury. In close quarters, no one living could match Darkstar with a sword. His blade spun so fast that it left a morbid note on the air. A whistle of approaching death which was heard but never seen. Their throats opened. Armour crumbled. Like the buildings of the  _Sunspear_ their towering figures tumbled helplessly. A dozen. Thirty. More. He lost count.

He emerged from another slaughter, leaning on the great doors to open them. Their edges dragged through pools of blood. His face, obscured with sand, was locked in an godly rage.

The ballroom glinted with Yronwood armour. You could pick them from across the dune. Gold shoulder plates, a silver breast and a black gate burned into their heart. Yellow tufts of feather erupted from their helmets. Most were thick with blood.

They were occupied already, converging on a figure at the other end of the hall. Nearly a foot taller than the crowd, a _Westerosi_ knight slashed at them with a blade in each hand. One was thin and blue like a slither of ice. Its touch shattered any sword that dared to lift in its direction showering the aggressors in a hail of snow. The other. _The other..._ Darkstar lost his breath at the sight of the milky-blade striking the air. Their blood couldn't touch it. Light bent around its edge – held back by some ancient magic. _Dawn_. Gerold felt its presence in his bones.

The knight pushed Yronwood's men back like a wave repelled from a boulder in the sea. They fell against each other, skewered where they lay – their swords left as dust with their hands clutching empty crossguards.

As their bodies folded, a pathway emerged between Darkstar and the knight. He was a beast barely wearing the torn remnants of a shirt and a woollen kilt in the deserts of _Dorne_ soaked the sweat and blood alike. It was the eyes that cut deeper than his pair of mis-matched swords. Cold and cesious, they could have been bergs adrift in the mist. A bear, for sure. The dragon queen's disgraced Northern consort. He'd heard the whispers but never did Darkstar imagine a tremble to spread across his flesh at the sight.

Some of Yronwood's men noticed the presence of the blood soaked Darkstar. Menacingly, he lifted his sword to their curiosity, daring them to challenge. They did.

*~*~*

Jaqen entered the palace from the tunnels. He kept his face, gambling that a pale, foreign man would draw less attention than the woman he'd worn earlier as he crept through the palace. Its inhabitants had fled to the shadows like rats leaving only men with swords to stalk the hallways. He owed neither party any affection but for the Stark girl's sake, he slit the throat of any Yronwood he found and pulled them into abandoned corners.

He could not help but feel that he was stealing from the Red God as their bodies fell lifeless in his hands.

Around a corner, he found himself knee-deep in bodies and at the head of the slaughter, two men facing off an army.

*~*~*

Abruptly, the door fell silent. Tyrion gripped the knife handle, wrapping his chubby hands around the leather wrappings. The Seven Gods themselves could not have parted him from the blade. Silence settled over the room. The wind across the open stone became the only sound. It made a low hiss.

“Prince Doran – what are you doing?” Varys whispered urgently, as the Martell prince dragged his bones from the chair.

“Opening the door, of course,” he replied calmly. His terrified guards attended to him, holding onto his arm while Doran pushed the golden spear that had been boarding the doors from the iron holdings. It clattered to the ground. “Now open the doors.” He commanded.

Varys and Tyrion shifted closer together, instinctively guarding the Stark girl who stood without fear on the stone sill. Tyrion heard the Spider withdraw a short, slender blade from within his silk sleeves. “How long has that been there?” he asked.

“All spiders have fangs, Lord Tyrion,” Varys assured him.

The doors were pealed open by a pair of guards. Prince Doran faced the entrance, determined to meet whatever waited on the other side on his feet.

Doran saw a head first. Mounted on a spike, the ugly thing stared hollow-eyed at the gilded palace. Sinew and hair mingled, brushing against Gerold Dayne's fist where he clutched the spear. Those eyes were mirthless.

There were three men at the door. Darkstar – one of the Prince's bannermen, the Mormont knight and a sallow, thin man he had never seen before standing between them. The stranger's face was half in shadow, cut by the stark light streaming in blinding waves from a broken window.

Jaqen H'ghar was the first to kneel at Prince Doran's feet. He laid his sword over his knee and dipped his head. Jorah was next, placing both his swords against the stone. Darkstar's eyes lingered on _Dawn_ but he too bent the knee to his prince.

From nowhere, the Sandsnakes sidled into view, wiping their spears and knives clean. Doran searched their faces. All Oberyn's vipers lived.

“Arianne?”

Darkstar could not lift his eyes from the slate.

 


	69. Tears of the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for Laivaaja ♡ Thank you for all your wonderful reviews.

 

 

###  **THE SUNSPEAR - DORNE**

Varys stepped to Prince Doran's side while the whole palace held its breath. His head canted, ever so slightly, at the unexpected reappearance of the man from the depths of the Black Cells. It was not the first time they had met nor, did Varys imagine, would it be the last. He had paid this ghost for a soul in _Braavos_ so what was he doing here? Whatever his questions, Varys bit them back. He adopted a blank air of indifference toward Jaqen H'ghar who in turn treated him as a stranger.

Doran ignored them both, funnelling his panic toward Darkstar.

“Answer me!” Doran demanded of the Dayne. “Answer! Answer! _Answer!_ ” The last came with a strike to Darkstar's cheek. Doran was weak, barely raising a flush of colour to the skin.

“Your Grace,” Jorah answered, when Darkstar kept a silent vigil. His voice was gravel, rumbling gently. “Princess Arianne is in the throne room – she did not survive the fight.”

Anger welled so high in Doran's throat that it left his head wavering like a drunkard. He struck Darkstar again then cupped his hand as a tendon snapped. He felt _nothing_. Or was it everything at once? He could not discern night from day. Arianne was dead. “And Lord Yronwood?”

Jorah saw the shadow of a dragon in the prince's eyes. He'd never been more dangerous. “At large in the city. He fled with the last of his men when the palace fell.”

“Find him...” Doran hissed, even though Jorah was not his to command. “And when you do, I want him alive and kneeling at my feet. This ends today.”

*~*~*

The sun was heavy in the sky. It dragged the mountain's edge, low and orange with its rim obscured by a layer of warm air pressed into a ribbon above the uneven surface. Frost capped the red dirt in a pale reflection of snow. Opposite, three dragons swam in the sea with their long necks above the water, hemmed in by two fleets. The pirates had returned to their boats to count a sizeable pillage. Swords, armour and bags of gold were bartered on deck while their shadow – the queen's fleet, remained silent. Rows of _Unsullied_ bordered the rail, watching the beach outside the _Sunspear._

A few shy of six-hundred Yronwood soldiers were boxed in on all sides by a mixture of Doran's army, _Dothraki_ savages, _Unsullied_ and rogue pirates lingering for the show. The captives were arranged into rows, like the beads of a _Braavosi_ abacus.

Lord Yronwood stood at their head. Bruises blackened on his face, fresh cuts scabbed around the edges and a cloud of flies hassled his wounds. He'd been stripped of his armour and sword – left as naked as a man of war could be. None of it tempered him. He eyed the _Sunspear_ with a toxic mixture of lust and fury. The creature that lived in him would never die.

Repaired, the doors of the great city were left open to the desert where the defeated assembled. Their immensity dwarfed all in their shadow. To think, a few hours ago, they had flopped uselessly into the dirt.

“What theatre is this?” Whispered Varys, standing inline beside Tyrion. The queen's entourage took up one side – Doran's, the other. They were waiting for the Prince of Dorne to emerge from the city crypts. He'd kept them waiting for nearly an hour while he attended to his daughter, as was their way.

“No idea... The politics of war was always more your area.” Tyrion admitted. “Though it is not like the Dornishmen to keep their enemies alive. If they live, custom dictates forgiveness.” For his part, Tyrion would be happy to wage war somewhere with less fucking sand.

Varys took in the still of the city behind and the red sea rising up the beach. “Does this feel like forgiveness?”

There was no need for Tyrion to reply.

Daenerys had changed into ceremonial dress. Red silk brushed the sand at her feet held together with gold rings and exaggerated pins. A dragon brooch made of ruby was knitted through her hair like a breath of fire. Jorah stood beside her, fresh from battle. Like all the soldiers, his armour dripped with sweat. Others less fortunate, nursed unattended wounds. Those that could not stand were helped. All waited for their prince with ruthless loyalty.

Lord Yronwood's fate hung like the smoke in the air.

Prince Doran arrived as the edge of the sun touched the highest mountain, turning it black in silhouette. There wasn't a breath to be had in the crowd. Doran was carried through the sands by his guards – one thin arm on each of their shoulders. His face was drawn with a mixture of sorrow and vengeance. Dark stains hung under his eyes which were as red as the dragon queen's dress. His embellished robes dragged as he was set down in front of Lord Yronwood.

Quentyn watched the pair, both of whom had played the father.

All of Yronwood's men refused to kneel. They stood proud behind their lord, defiant. Previous princes offered false forgiveness and sent their aggressors back to the wiles to fester resentment. Already, reinforcements flying Martell banners had begun to spill down the dunes from neighbouring towns. Those fearful lords, unwilling to gamble on a victor, flocked to Doran Martell now that he had won. Prince Doran knew that this was the moment to cement the empire of _Dorne_ in front of their eyes.

Quentyn and Doran's guards closed in. Doran remained a full length from Yronwood, wary of the lord. Before a word could be spoken, Yronwood spat at the prince. His wild, mountainous looks were struck with the shaft of Quentyn's spear. His skin split. Yronwood laughed and was hit again.

“What is Dorne?” Prince Doran asked, with an icy calm. Whatever Lord Yronwood had prepared himself for, this was not it. “Dorne is an _idea_.” Doran proclaimed, speaking past Yronwood to the people. “Strength. Rebellion. Indulgence. Beauty. These are things that we create for ourselves. Pause for a moment and see the truth.” Which Doran did, lifting his arms at the world that encircled the men. Dunes bore down on the city. A pair of deserts kissed at the beach and between them – nothing but a thin gasp of salty froth. “Dorne is built on _sand_. We are an empty land with our ships sunk beneath the waves, going to rot with the merfolk and drowned fools.”

Anders' eyes burned with hatred that had been left unchecked for nearly a thousand years. It was bred into him. “That is the Dorne your slavers gave you... _We_ are the kings, Doran and you, a crown-less consort of a foreign queen. _Twice_ over.” To Lord Yronwood, the silver-haired Targaryen and the Rhoynish whore were the same.

“Is that what you want, Anders – a crown? I could not give you one if I wanted to. Crowns are _taken_.”

Daenerys felt her throat swell at Prince Doran's words. She knew exactly what it was to give a man a crown. Her brother wore such a gift in death. Beside her, Jorah brushed the handle of his sword.

“You are here because you have a small mind,” Doran raised his hand and gestured to the silver queen. “ _She_ is here because there is a storm on the horizon and I intend to weather it with iron and fire as our ancestors did.”

“You always were full of shit and flowery words.” Yronwood extended to his full height then glanced at his kin. Blood of the _First Men_ lived in their souls. _One more step, Doran, that's all it'd take._ “That daughter of yours, I hear she's laying in the crypt beneath your ruined palace – I should have taken her first. Laid her out over the stone. A waste. She reminds me of her mother. Whatever happened to Mellario?”

Everything boiled in Prince Doran. He reached for Yronwood but Yronwood was free of the rope around his wrists which he'd wound tightly between his hands. He hooked the twine over the back of Doran's neck in a single lunge. Yronwood's immense force dragged the prince down into the sand. Yronwood crushed the writhing snake so hard that the rope sliced through the flesh on his neck leaving it bloody. The prince's guards were on them immediately but Yronwood held fast until that final shudder died in Doran's lungs. When the ropes were untied, Doran's head was found to be almost severed. The Bloodroyal could have sworn Doran died with a smile on his lips.

“Hold him! Hold him!” Quentyn screamed, as the guards pulled Yronwood off Doran's corpse. Martell's soldiers unsheathed their swords and brandished them at the unarmed warriors, forcing them to their knees.

Quentyn bent to his father. Tenderly, he unwrapped the rope and tossed it to the side then manoeuvred Doran's head so that the worst of the wounds were hidden. He reached for the clasp on his cloak, snapped it free and laid it over his father's body. His attention shifted to Lord Yronwood.

“You've made a mistake...” Quentyn hissed. “My father intended to let your men return to the mountains. You were enough to sate his appetite for vengeance. Mine? I could drown the seas...”

Jorah's arm grazed protectively in front of Daenerys as the new Prince of Dorne took Lord Yronwood's head _slowly_ with the end of a spear. She, in turn, lifted her hand ever so slightly to signal her army. Whatever the barbarity, for the moment she was prepared to let it play out.

“I'm going to be _sick_ ,” Varys murmured, as Yronwood's head was held aloft. It was so fresh the Spider was sure he saw the eyes blink.

“This is _nothing_ ,” Tyrion replied. “Flesh peeling off men while they are still alive – shadows of ash in the shape of screaming children... Our new Prince Quentyn is a calculated man. Watch.”

“Sometimes I think you forget that I was there when the Mad King burned a Stark alive.”

“You're right,” Tyrion agreed, “sometimes I forget who you truly are, Lord Varys.”

With two bodies left on the dirt, Quentyn directed his bile to the remainder of Yronwood's army. A general raised his head and demanded forgiveness now that their lord was dead.

“It is yours...” Quentyn assured him. Holding his spear in one hand, the prince offered the general the other in peace. The general reached forward, following custom. Their hands clasped together. Prince Quentyn's grip was firm – near bruising. “At a price...”

Too late, the general saw the spear come down. Its blade was thin and sharp, slipping through his wrist with a viscous thrust from Quentyn. The general screamed in shock, stumbling backwards into the arms of his men, clutching a fresh stump.

Quentyn held the severed hand aloft for the men to see. “Take the right hand of every man,” he ordered his army, as the limb dripped like tears on the desert. “Throw them into sand around the walls so that all who pass understand – if you raise a sword against the Prince of Dorne, that hand will never hold a sword again.”

*~*~*

Hundreds of bodies had been removed from the palace and surrounding streets and thrown in pyres lit outside the walls of the city. Their fires caressed the night early throws of night. The citizens grew brazen, filing out into the sand to toss furniture and rubbish onto the bonfires, feeding their flames. With swathes of the city destroyed, the armies made camp on the beach, encircling the _Sunspear_ like a painted veil. The pirates were not so keen. They kept to the waters, uneasy with the soldiers while their captain watched the city twinkle in the darkness.

Daenerys entered the throne room alone.

Prince Quentyn lingered in front of the gilded chair. Its velvet cushion was stained with his sister's blood and the floor surrounding it coated in powdered steel from the destroyed sword. All of _Dorne_ was his and yet Quentyn would trade everything to start today again. He understood what his father had done. Doran was a genius to the end though it would take the realm a while to appreciate the extent of his sacrifice. Even the Targaryen queen danced to Doran's song. Quentyn could hear her words before she uttered them.

“Do not bother with apologies,” Quentyn said, as the silver dragon approached the base of the steps. “You owe me none. What you have is a question, am I right?” He turned and caught acknowledgement on her face. She dipped her head to him. “My tragedy is advantageous for your cause. With Yronwood and his supporters gone, the wavering houses have flocked to my banner. There's no need to waste gold and barter passage North – I _own_ the North. Well...” He trailed off. “...as North as you can claim at the Southern tip of Westeros.”

Daenerys glanced at the partially collapsed throne room. She'd seen the Iron Throne in a place more ruined than this. The Dornish throne would endure the upheaval but the fate of _Westeros_ was less certain.

“What is obvious to me and your advisors is that I can no longer accompany you in the siege of King's Landing.”

“You have a kingdom to run,” Daenerys agreed. “A volatile one, fresh from war. Staying here protects your family and your claim.”

 _Family?_ Quentyn thought. His brother and sister were dead. His father too. Only his mother remained but she was as real to him as a dream. _Norvos_ may as well have been another name for Death. “My word is my honour, dragon queen,” Quentyn assured her. He was oddly calm despite his focus on the empty throne. “You'll have a guide to replace me. He is more than capable with a deeper mastery of war than I'll ever know. His moods are difficult but he'll ensure you arrive at the gates of King's Landing, spoiling for a fight.”

That was fair so she dipped her head. She'd been prepared for retaliation for the loss of his father and sister but Quentyn's rage had been spent on the soldiers. “The Dayne... You want me to trust the fate of my crown to their line after what happened?”

“A disaffected Dayne,” Quentyn assured her. “One that was in love with my sister – though he'll never admit as much despite how painfully obvious he was about it every time he sulked into the city. He has no affection for the Yronwood cause now that she is dead.” Quentyn shook his head. “Like me, he'll never forgive their house for that, nor will he forget. Let him spend his anger somewhere useful. The family sword on loan to you is his when you are finished with it – on my honour I have sworn as much to assure his help in this cause.”

“And you?” There was genuine concern on her face. “There are enemies here in Dorne. Without my army...”

“Did you not see the dunes as night fell? Vast numbers approach to support my cause and if I may, I am not my father. Fear not, silver queen. The Martells are not done with this world.”

 _However_ lingered between them. “Our engagement...”

“I _must_ marry and produce heirs to cement my reign. I no longer have time to play politics with the future. I am sorry. You have my support, my men but you cannot have what you seek.” The silver queen's face dropped in disappointment. He descended the slate steps. “I remember when I first saw you.”

“At the house with the red door?”

Despite all that had happened, Prince Quentyn managed a smile. “No indeed. I was sailing into Braavos. You were on dragon-back, tearing the ghastly walls of the Iron Bank to shreds and I thought, _'Here is the dawn...'_ Somehow you find order in the chaos. My father was right. You have power beyond your understanding. We have stood shoulder to shoulder with dragons. Dorne is not afraid of fire or blood.”

*~*~*

“How was the prince?” Jorah asked, falling into step beside the queen as she trailed through the corridor carrying the delicate bracelet from Quentyn's wrist.

“Oddly calm,” Daenerys replied, comforted by the _clink_ of full plate armour beside her. She explained the change in circumstance to her knight.

“As long as the Dayne is trustworthy, you are stronger than before. Quentyn is an asset to you on the throne and he wields greater control than his father. We can expect more warriors on thrones.”

“No. Violence always leads to unpredictable outcomes. We don't have to pay our way through the mountains but we may end up in a fight all the same. As might Quentyn, if he is not very careful. Every noble hungry for a crown will be at his gates. He's a boy, not a king. Quentyn was made for war – the throne won't suit him. What is it?”

Jorah felt that she was speaking of herself. “The pirate fleet, Your Grace,” Jorah continued, as they walked. “They are moored in the bay. Our forces are keeping an eye on them but they seem content to await an audience with you.”

“Daario.”

“He's rowing a boat to shore as we speak. I thought perhaps you'd like to meet with him alone.”

Jorah was not insensitive to their history. They were lovers, there was no secret in that and Daario had been gone for so long. There were things that they needed to say to each other. Where Jorah stood with the queen now that Daario had returned was a mystery. He had no wish to press an answer yet.

“I must change,” he gestured at his armour. “Then I will take you to Daario Naharis.”

*~*~*

It was decided to keep all contact with the pirates under the strictest confidence.

They were a rare unknown in a long played game and Varys wisely wished to keep it that way. Their enemies would be aware of the pirate presence in the battle but as yet, no one knew _why_ they had arrived in Dorne – if it was opportunistic or planned – if they belonged to Dorne or themselves. At the very least it would set a fresh wave of whispers rife on the realm.

Daario waited in one of the tunnels that faced onto the sea. The moon was somewhere on the other side of the city shedding the faintest halo on the surface. The tide had risen, inching up the walls until it spilled over the ground, flooding tiny molluscs that made their home in the cavern. The steady roll of the waves and soft squawks of seagulls nesting in the wall reminded him of _Yin_. Daario had been made for the water.

A rustle drew his attention to the depths of the tunnel. From the darkness, a lantern approached with the soft splash of feet. He pushed himself off the wall and turned to face the queen.

 _He is not the same man_ Daenerys realised, as she took in Daario's appearance. His thick belts and layers of jewellery were finished with a gaudy, _enormous_ sword that made him appear shorter. _Valyrian_ steel. Who must he have slain to possess such a thing? A heavy beard was stained with salt crystals and his wavy hair shone with grease. He'd pulled it back into a tie revealing scars a dark tan accentuated. One of his eyes, damaged in a fight, was nearly black where the pupil swelled to fill the void. He looked every inch the wild pirate.

Daario lowered himself, kneeling into the cool water on the tunnel floor. A pirate king would never kneel to a _Westerosi_ queen but he did, dipping his head without reservation to Daenerys.

“It is you, then...” Daenerys whispered. Her flame flickered inside its glass prison. “I was not certain.”

“Ay, Your Grace,” Daario replied softly. He had a Northern edge to his words. “I have brought Viserion home to you. He followed when the _Dothraki_ horselords sold me into slavery.”

“You were a _slave_?” She stepped closer. More than his appearance had changed. His lips were stained blue from _Shade of the Evening_. Daenerys wondered if he had gone mad on the waves or if, like many, he drank it to dull the terror in the world.

“For a time. Then a prisoner. I was bartered and dragged across The White Ranges and set upon ships in Old Ghis. I thought I had seen every depravity the world held but then-” Daario's eyes were haunted.

“And now a pirate?”

“The laws of the sea are simpler than Westeros.” He returned to his feet. Water poured off his clothes. “I killed their queen and took her place.” He had forgotten, if that were possible, how beautiful Daenerys was. The lamplight and water made the violet in her eyes glow. Dressed in red and half-hidden by shadow in the tunnel, she was as much a dream to him now as she had been on the waves. It was impossible to return to where they left. Those people were _gone_.

“Pirate law is not so different but I don't understand, what brought you here? Dorne is on the other side of the world from where we last met.”

“I came here for _you_...” he whispered, leaning closer.

“Daario-”

“My name is not _Daario_.” He withdrew with his confession. “That old bear of yours, surely creature that he is, was right not to trust me. He has an uncanny nose for betrayal and that is what I intended – a lifetime ago. I can barely remember Yunkai or those feckless captains I threw at your feet. All I knew in those days was that a young girl wandered out of the desert with a hoard of savages and three dragons. I wanted those dragons more than anything and you were their mother. I want them still but I have come to learn that dragons cannot be owned, stolen, traded or ransomed. Viserion...” He was wistful as he thought of the winged creature. “He taught me many things.”

Daenerys felt the walls of the sea tunnel close in on her. She was alone. Ser Jorah and all her men waited in the palace above. How foolish she was to trust. She'd learned _nothing_. “I don't understand. What are you trying to tell me? That you pledged yourself to me – bedded me – fought my wars – for my _dragons_?”

“Daenerys, I am trying to tell you that I did not _become_ a pirate on the waters of the Jade Sea. I was _born_ one. Raised as one. Lived as one. I pay the iron price. I take and I kill what I cannot possess. My name haunts the seas and lives there, even when I took leave of its choppy embrace to seek out a dragon queen. For a moment, Daenerys, you allowed me to forget my name. I believed in you. I watched a girl climb onto Drogon's back and in that moment, you became a god made flesh.”

Her gaze hardened. She was surrounded by liars. “ _Who_ are you?”

“Your Grace – Daenerys... I am Euron Greyjoy, brother of Lord Balon and heir to the Iron Islands but the world knows me as a demon so for the moment, I have kept this name to myself.”

For the longest time they said nothing. Their only comfort was the constant crash of waves pushing deeper into the cave. Despite his lies, a part of Daenerys wished to vanish into his arms and remember their warmth. There had to be something tangible beneath his deceit. In a moment of bravery, Daenerys set her lantern on a hook in the wall and moved bravely toward Euron.

“Every child has heard your name, even a dragon raised in Braavos...” she whispered, ridding herself of fear. This was the same man that pledged his sword to her and she believed him, perhaps more than he believed himself. “You could have tipped the battle against me and ransacked the city – taken the Sunspear for yourself – kept Viserion, for he certainly has affection for you. Instead, you took your hoard of pirates and helped crush Yronwood's men. You placated your pirates with common robbery but what, Lord _Greyjoy_ ,” she used his real name again, “is it that you want from me? Daario asks and Euron takes. You have done neither.”

 _No tears_ , Euron noticed. His queen had moved beyond them. “I have _seen_ things,” he murmured, leaning toward the queen. She was close enough that her perfume caught the air. His sword scraped against the wall while all the adornments hanging from his neck knocked together. Shells. Gold. Jewels. They rattled like bones. “The dead walked on Yin that day. Burned it to the ground. Can you imagine it? The greatest city in the world abandoned as ash.”

“You were _there_...”

“Whatever is rising in the world,” he continued, “there will be nothing left of it to plunder if we run and hide. Quaithe-”

“You've seen her?”

“She is aboard my ship. Daenerys...” This time, Euron took her hand – dragging it against his chest as he used to do. Her fingertips met the rough weave of his shirt. “I know what you have seen in your dreams. We sailed through Old Valyria,” he watched her eyes widen, “into the smoke. We've filled our hull with Valyrian steel for your war and in those mists, there were faces of those yet to die and others that could not.”

“You would not smile if you knew what I dreamed,” Daenerys breathed.

Euron used his free hand to cup her pale cheek softly. “Your Grace, you will always make me smile.” He stepped away when she pushed closer. “This act does not amend my general savagery. You and I have done unspeakable things. My decks are painted red from them. Gods know what we might do together.”

Daenerys watched him pace all the way to the edge of the cave. He longed to be back aboard his ship. “Varys has a plan, if you accept but it will require you to be, 'Daario' a little longer.”

“Is that spider still scheming?”

“Always... Although in truth, I'm not sure he'd want me to pursue this – knowing who you are. I disagree. Euron – Daario. You are the same flesh that stood beside me in Yunkai. If you succeed, your pirates will have something to sink their golden teeth into and if you are a Lord of Westeros, I am still your queen.”

“I'm listening...”

*~*~*

Varys and the thin man met in one of the many abandoned rooms within the palace. Once inside, Varys closed the door and fled to its centre where he spent a good few minutes contemplating the assassin. He _hated_ when one of his silken threads fell out of place.

“I am surprised... I did not anticipate another meeting,” he admitted. “This is the third time I have thought this yet here you are.”

Jaqen strolled calmly toward the coals smouldering in the fireplace. It was the only light in the dark but it was nearly finished – moments from passing into smoke. It did just that, hissing into death leaving the room near pitch. “Things do not always turn out as we expect. A man finds himself without a face.”

“As far as the world is concerned, you and I have never met,” Varys insisted firmly, then added sharply. “I paid you to go North.” He was deeply mistrustful of a Faceless Man sniffing around a dragon queen. For all their protests, he was _certain_ ancient revenge throbbed in those veins. “What business do you have in Dorne?”

“None,” Jaqen replied quickly. “Your ships were the fastest way to Westeros. A man was on his way North to take a life when the fighting broke. What good is a name to god if the man who uttered it is dead?”

“So you _saved_ me?”

“And now a man must leave.” Jaqen turned to go but Varys was fast, circling to place his body between Jaqen and the door.

“How?” Varys asked. “How did you join our crew? You must have taken a face. Which face?”

Jaqen sized Varys. The man was larger than his tone suggested – broad shouldered, tall and strong. He could have been a knight if the gods hadn't taken his balls first. “You call this face, _Missandei_.”

*~*~*

Outside the door, Tyrion ground his forehead against the surface and closed his eyes. His tears burned onto the wood. _Missandei_. Of course she was dead. Since _Braavos_. All this time her gentle words had been _his_. Tyrion felt sick. His hands shook. He rolled his body from the door to the freezing wall and bit back a howl.

*~*~*

Quaithe turned to the shadow on the water. The pirate ship loomed large above her tiny row boat with its sails flapping near-death against the masts. She listened to the slap of the paddles in the water, beating their way closer to the shore.

_The bloodstone_ . She felt its loss keenly as the distance increased. Quaithe pleaded – begged Daario to relinquish possession of it but all he'd say to her demands was,  _'Not yet... Not yet...”_

*~*~*

“A Lannister begging at my door...” Prince Quentyn admitted the sand-haired lion.

It was forbidden for kings to mourn so Quentyn wrapped himself in gold silks. His splendour was marred by stains where his fresh wounds leaked into the fabric. Quentyn let his blood flow as a way to honour the dead.

Tyrion bowed his head. “My apologies, disturbing you. Especially after... I have a small request. You have no reason to grant it but I implore you.”

*~*~*

The boat crunched against the sand. Quaithe stepped out and lifted a prayer to the stars. _Westeros_ greeted her with a thousand whispered screams. Here, the trees had faces and the dead, throats with which to howl. A crow landed on the shore. Its three eyes glinted with the glow from a pyre. Sickening smoke left the air foul.

 _Death._ _Westeros_ had the stink of it.

*~*~*

Tyrion set the bottle of wine on the mantle while he shoved a poker into the coals. Flames reignited and gushed against the stone as the kindling caught. The glow reached all the way to the corners of the room where Varys lingered like a cowering sea creature. After, Tyrion worked his way to every lantern until theirs was the brightest window in the city, shining in the darkness. Beneath, he caught sight of the carpet of stars where the armies slept. He wondered how a congregation of violent men could appear so beautiful. Peaceful, even. Were the stars violent too?

“Do you have a name?” Tyrion addressed the stranger, standing between himself and Varys.

Jaqen had been on his way out when Tyrion intruded, swaggering in with a bottle of wine. Varys' mind raced beneath his black eyes, calculating what he could get away with – waiting for Jaqen to take the lead.

“One must have a name to raise a glass to,” Tyrion added, pouring the wine cheerfully into a pair of goblets. He did not offer any to Varys. “Here.” The man nodded but was reluctant to take the glass. “Go on then, to whom do we owe our thanks? If it weren't for you, that brooding Dayne and the Queen's knight we'd be corpses in the sea.” Silence. “Can he speak the Common Tongue?”

Varys stepped forward, his hands buried in his sleeves. “This man is a private sellsword, between companies.”

“A sellsword?” Tyrion marvelled at Varys' lies. He delivered them with such candour that even now Tyrion was tempted to believe. “How very unlike your nature to become embroiled in the city's affairs without promise of coin.”

“The new Prince has generously offered payment for my trouble.” Jaqen replied, wisely dropping his _Braavosi_ manners. “Now I must excuse myself. Lord Varys. Lord Tyrion.” He bowed deeply to both then moved to leave. The imp pressed a glass of wine against his abdomen. “Ah.” Jaqen relieved Tyrion of the glass and lifted it. “To the new prince of Dorne – and your queen, of course.”

Jaqen's lips hovered near the rim of the goblet, watched keenly by the others. Varys held his nerve, hoping the gesture might placate whatever strange, post-battle trauma had manifested in the Lannister. Tyrion, calm, lay in wait. The _Faceless Man_ hesitated. He inhaled. Deep. _Salt_. Jaqen smiled.

“Odd choice, for a Lannister.” Jaqen dropped his pretence at the scent of poison. There was no use for it. “I cannot decide. Was your intent to send a man mad or test him?”

Tyrion emptied his own cup of wine into the fire. The bottle too. Varys watched, panic rising. Did Tyrion know? _What did he know?_

“Basilisk venom requires skill.” Jaqen continued. “One which you do not possess, Lord Tyrion. Wine is a terrible vessel for such things.”

“When I kill you,” Tyrion assured Jaqen, “it will be with my hands around your throat.”

Varys edged closer. “Tyrion wait...” he attempted to move between the them but the imp shoved Varys into a nearby chair. It tipped over, throwing Varys onto the ground.

“I knew I'd seen you before,” Tyrion continued, focused on the man. “It was a long time ago but I used to watch my father march men into the Black Cells. I wondered how long it would be until I ended up in their depths. It happened. I've lived in their depths amid the rank and horror. Is that where you met Varys? He was fond of prowling in the shadows.” Tyrion turned to Varys. “Do you make a habit of recruiting criminals?”

“When it serves,” Varys drawled, righting the chair.

“I know what you are and I know that Lord Varys paid for your service, all I want to know is where Missandei is... Well? Where is she?”

Instead of answering, Jaqen reached up to his neck, found the edge of skin where his magic faltered and pealed away his face revealing the kind eyes of Missandei.

Tyrion stumbled, knocking over a stand that held their glasses. It crashed against the floor. Even Varys gripped his chair at the beastly sight of Missandei's face stitched onto the man's body. Everything was there. Her beauty. The tiny scratch across her cheek from the jungle. _It was her_. It was also a ghost. This man wore her like a mask as if she was worth _nothing._ Well, she was worth more than that to Tyrion. He lifted his hand, brandishing his rage. “You – you _stop that_!”

A moment later Missandei was gone and Jaqen remained. A slight of hand.

“...and Grey Worm?”

“The Unsullied general?” Jaqen asked. “He followed the one named Missandei. Asked questions.”

“So – you murdered them both.”

“Death is a gift.”

Tyrion launched himself at the assassin. His passion made up for the ridiculous assumption that he might better the warrior.

“Tyrion _no!_ ” Varys was up, gripping the imp's shoulders. He tried to pull him off Jaqen. A chair went backwards. One of the lanterns smashed onto the stone and set a patch of carpet alight. Jaqen threw Tyrion to the ground. He rolled over the fire, extinguishing it with his body until he hit the stone wall beneath the window. Tyrion clutched his chest, coughing up the wind stuck in his lungs. He went to lash out again but Varys kneeled on the ground and took his head in his enormous hands. His fingers slipped on the tears he found there. “Tyrion, _listen to me!_ ”

“You're a traitor, Varys!” Tyrion hissed. He found an off-cut of wood – perhaps a statue, and slammed it into the side of Varys' head. The Spider's skin tore above his eye. Blood ran down onto his cheek but he kept a firm hold of Tyrion.

Behind them, Jaqen calmly clasped his hands behind his back and shifted to the fire.

“No one's a traitor, Tyrion,” Varys fended off his attacks until he laid still against the wall. “Whatever you might think you know, you have it wrong.”

“Varys, did you not see? Missandei is _dead_. Grey Worm too. What do you think our Queen is going to do when she finds out?”

Real fear crossed Varys' face. “Missandei was an accident,” the Spider whispered. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Inside the House of Black and White. Only the gods know what she was doing going in there in the first place. What did she imagine would happen in a den of murderers?”

Tyrion's throat caught. He remembered back to that day – he and Missandei, waiting on the steps of the _Iron Bank_ while Varys vanished into _Braavos_. “I asked her to follow you...” Tyrion whispered.

“You should not have done that.”

“Forget the assassin...” Tyrion scrambled to his feet, his eyes locked with Varys. “What were _you_ doing? There's only one reason a man pays a visit to the assassins of Braavos. You wanted someone killed.”

“I did it for the realm.”

“For the realm? _For the realm_. Your eternal mantra, Varys. WHOSE NAME DID YOU PAY FOR?”

“Sh... Seven hells!” Varys tried to hush him.

“Was it the queen's?”

“Don't be ridiculous. I gave up everything for Daenerys Targaryen. You are going to have to trust me. What I did – what I paid for, it is for _her –_ at great personal cost. And now we must let this man go so that he can take the name owed to his god.” Varys looked back toward the room but Jaqen had slipped away while they fought.

Varys let go of the imp and ended up on the floor himself. His careful web of lies lay decimated by a single truth – one, he feared, he could not hide. Not without Tyrion's help.

Tyrion screamed and threw another lantern across the room where it shattered into a thousand pieces. Light swelled again until the flames tied. Tears welled afresh at the edges of his eyes. They began to fall, unchecked, as he laid back against the wall in defeat. He could not separate Missandei's eyes from Shae's. “I knew something was wrong,” he whispered. “With Missandei. She has no one to say prayers over her body. She deserved better.”

“Missandei died today in the city,” Varys insisted, already spinning a fresh web. “That is the story we will tell the queen. We bury her in Dorne. Say the sacred words. We cannot let her tragic death unravel everything that we have worked for.”

“Did you know?”

Varys shook his head. “No...” And here was a fragment of honesty. “I did not know.”

“But you guessed.” Despite the emotion overwhelming his heart, Tyrion was a rational, calculating man like his father. He was beginning to see Varys' point and he hated himself for it. “And the name you paid for...”

“I cannot tell you,” Varys insisted. “No – I trust you sober,” he added, when Tyrion challenged him, “but I never trust a man when he's been on the wine. I have one opportunity. One. If they are allowed to live our queen will surely find herself on the edge of a blade. I'm asking you. Begging you. For our queen. _For the realm._ Tyrion, trust me.”

Tyrion seriously considered the poisoned wine left in Jaqen's goblet. He must have drifted toward it for Varys reached it first and tossed it into the fire.

“Don't lose your mind in grief.”

“I don't want to hear any more from you tonight...” Tyrion stalked towards the corner of the room. “I want you to bring me a fresh bottle of wine and leave me alone.”

Varys nodded, cautiously hopeful that Tyrion intended to keep his secret.

*~*~*

Varys searched the palace for the Mormont knight and found him lingering at the entrance to the sea-tunnels, braving the faint odour of dried fish and scented smoke to wait for his queen. The lower levels of the palace were dark with lanterns dragging against the mottled walls, barely carved out of the bedrock. Some dead sea had wandered higher over the land and left behind fossilised shells in the rock. They twinkled against the stone in the uneasy lamplight.

“Mormont,” Varys announced his presence, aware that he had a habit of startling those in dark places. “I take it the queen is still speaking with our new pirate lord?”

“She is.” Every now and then he caught the whisper of voices on the air. If anything were amiss, he'd hear. Jorah instantly noticed the dark bruise and viscous cut running across the bald head. It was fresh. “You have news – bad news from the look of you.”

“My little birds have brought word on Missandei. She was caught, they say, when Yronwood's men found the tunnels beneath the city. The Stark girl confirmed that they were hiding when the slaughter began. Arya slipped away – Missandei did not. There is no body,” Varys added, more softly, “but I have half a dozen eyes that swear her corpse was taken by the ocean.” He lingered awkwardly, troubled by something he had not yet said.

“...and...” The great bear prompted.

“...and one of the dragons fed on her.” Varys finished, constructing his horrific lie.

The features in Jorah's face tightened. “That last part – you keep that to yourself, Spider.”

Varys dipped his head low. “Of course.” And just like that, Missandei was washed away from the world. He turned his attention to the entrance to the cave. “Daario... I cannot believe that man is alive after all this time. There is one thing that you could say of him, he is a survivor.”

Jorah was obviously still working Missandei's death over. “Do you think he'll accept your plan?”

“I could not say,” Varys admitted. “Daario always did as he pleased. It is in his favour to accept especially if he wants to keep his fleet of pirates. They are fickle creatures.”

“Those fickle things followed him through the cursed waters of Old Valyria... I spoke to a few of them. They are not all as savage as you suppose. Most are traders driven to poverty by the recent wars, both in Westeros and Essos. A great many more fled the plagues we saw ravage Meereen. It's an interesting mix he has sailing under his flag. One whose loyalties will be difficult to anticipate.”

“I am aware of the challenges regarding the pirate fleet. Since they arrived in Dornish waters I've thought of little else.”

“The Queen is not going to take the news of Missandei well,” Jorah warned.

“She will take it like a queen, I am sure,” Varys replied, slinking back into the shadows.

*~*~*

Tyrion found the Stark girl practising her swordsmanship against the assassin. He was strolling around the palace like the saviour of the city. Jaqen lowered his sword when Tyrion appeared.

“Lady Stark,” Tyrion ignored the assassin, “may we speak in private?”

Arya approached. She twirled her sword as she followed him.

“I have something to tell you...” Tyrion told her of Missandei.

“I know,” Arya shrugged the information off. “The other one, with the bald head, he was here.”

Tyrion hesitated. Was Arya part of the lies?

“Everyone who tries to take care of me dies. You should be careful, Lord Tyrion.”

“I owe it to your sister to see you safely back to Winterfell. I am your brother, in name and honour.” He tried to find some of Sansa in Arya but the two sisters could not be further apart. Sansa was a born ruler – the future of the North. His father was right to respect the power she commanded. It made him sick to think of her locked in Bolton's grasp and now Littlefinger. He was no less dangerous. Arya? Arya had more in common with the murderer in the other room. Her eyes were dark and her will, darker still. She was a true wolf that had to be returned to the North or he feared the old gods might rise in vengeance. “There are worse men that she could have married.”

Arya dragged her blade across the floor. “She murdered her last husband,” Arya whispered. “You really should take care...”

Perhaps Sansa and Arya were more alike than he realised.

*~*~*

“A man must go now,” Jaqen said, as their swords met. They sparred well into the night in the ruins of the palace. Arya was a few inches taller and stronger, striking his weapon with fervour. She hit him harder as he repeated the words. Yes, he must go and she must make her own way for a while. “Do you think this is the end?” Their blades clashed. “A girl is angry.”  _ Crash _ . “A girl is afraid.”

Jaqen's sword flew from his hand and rolled over the ground. He held his hands up in mock defeat. She stared, circling him.  _ No _ , a man was wrong. The girl was neither of those things. He reached forward and gripped the blade of her sword. She was startled by the blood that ran from his palm and dripped onto the floor. It welled between the cracks in the slate, rising like the tide. She tried to move but even the slightest tremble caused  _ Needle _ to cut deeper.

“I know your secret. A girl has a name,” Jaqen whispered, kneeling down so that they were eye to eye with the sword between them, “and she can't forget it.  _ It is okay _ . No one is truly nothing...”

“Jaqen...”

He let go of her sword. A moment later her was gone. Arya doubted that they'd meet again and if they did, he'd keep is face from here. There was power in a name and she knew his. Arya wiped his blood from her blade – the only tangible remnant of her  _ Faceless Man _ .

*~*~*

Tyrion's raging mind dragged him down into the depths of the palace. He walked through the tunnels, barely noticing as they frequently opened to the sea with a glow of moonlight cutting shadows across his face. The bruises deepened. Wine stained his clothes where it had splashed up from the fire. He wallowed in his thoughts of Missandei. His mind was haunted by her face, hanging on a stone wall. Her eyes, hollow. Her smile curled on the lips of an assassin. He wondered if Grey Worm had faced Missandei's kind eyes on the other end of a blade. Did she feet him to the monsters in the river and leaving him screaming in the depths? They were part of the labyrinth of silent horrors the sands hid from view.

He sealed his lips shut and curled up in one of the caves. Tyrion whispered vile, murderous thoughts to the sea gods. Only they were terrible enough to revel in his words. He prayed to them. Begged them to bring their wrath upon the men without faces. To tear their ancient house apart and scatter their faces in the sea.

*~*~*

Jorah found Daenerys wandering the tunnel. The waters of the rising sea lapped around their knees – cool and pink, lit from beneath by a swell of tiny creatures that fluoresced in the dark.

Daenerys unhooked her lantern from the wall and turned to the approaching bear. “He agreed to Varys' plan. Daario has returned to his fleet to organise an exchange of arms. He's brought Valyrian steel from the ruined city – a gift and in exchanged I've asked for some of the dragonglass to be sent to his men. They will be needing it.”

Jorah nodded, more interested in what she had not said. “Daario has been at sea for a long time,” Jorah started carefully.

“Are you asking if he is a pirate or my captain?” Her words sharp words slapped the air.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Both – neither...” she admitted. “Daario is many things but I believe he will honour our arrangement. For the moment that will have to suffice. He'll sail with the tide. The longer he lingers here, the more people will suspect our alliance. Everything will be done before the sun rises.”

Jorah carefully reached for the queen's arm. He placed his hand on her pearl skin, offering her a moment of comfort. She adopted a facade of steel. “He brought you Viserion...” Jorah whispered. “I – I was wrong about Daario,” he added quietly. “He was loyal to you, always – to your cause and to your crown. If he says he'll honour this deal of Varys' I believe him.”

Daenerys pressed her hand against the one he had on her arm. She wanted to tell him the truth about Daario but feared his rage. Instead, she let the lantern fall into the water and turned entirely into his arms. Jorah held her against his chest. Her hands fisted in his shirt while her face hid. The waters of Dorne lapped at their legs and in the darkness, lowered his lips to the top of her head, kissing her silver hair.

“Missandei?” She whispered.

Jorah tensed against her and Daenerys had her answer.

 


	70. Mockingbird

 

###  **STARFALL – DORNE**

“This is the place...” Their boat crushed up against the gravel shore. The rocks at their feet were as black as the ruined towers that smouldered above beyond the cliffs. Surrounded by wild water that was neither river nor sea, the island at _Starfall_ was oddly quiet. It was as though the fire that cursed its walls would never entirely die. It smoked, leaving a slither of filth on the air.

Sam stepped out into the low tide and dragged their dilapidated vessel up the bank. Marwyn followed, struggling with the uneven ground. It was littered with the skeletal remains of fish while droves of gulls wandered like white sails, picking them clean.

“Yes, this is the place,” he agreed, as they found the steps cut into the cliff. A sad length of chain swung in the wind. Marwyn gripped onto it as they climbed.

When they reached the summit, Sam collapsed over the short wall dividing them from the cliff's drop. There were more gulls up here but these ones had found something more substantial than fish to scavenge. “How many, do you think?”

“Thirty, at least,” Marwyn replied, counting the corpses. “That we can see. The rest have blown away with the sea wind.” Not entirely. Yronwood's men had left behind stains of ash which Sam and Marwyn stepped carefully around not wishing to offend the dead. “I'd always wondered,” the mage added, placing his hand on the warm, black stone, “how this rock came about. There are no mines for it on record here or in the East.”

“It looks like the base of the Hightower,” Sam was left with grease between his fingers. “It's horrible.”

“It's magic...” Marwyn purred, following a deep gouge in the stone where a set of claws had passed. “Or the residue of dead magic. Starfall was the keeper of a sacred relic from the Dawn Age,” he continued, leading Sam inside the building. It continued to collapse around them, shedding soot and bone. More horrors lay in wait. Bodies, piled high and burned until their bones _melted_. This is what the dragon queen left in her wake. “There must have been protections over this place to keep such an item safe from pillage for thousands of years. I wonder if you've heard the stories of what strange and dark things befell any foolish enough to try and steal it? These are stories told to every Dornish child. They say the Palestone Tower is cursed.”

“I had an old maid who used to tell stories like that. Gave me nightmares, she did. Her stories, as it turned out, were real. Why are we here?” Sam asked, stepping carefully over what looked like an arm.

“Call it a pilgrimage. Call it curiosity... I swore I'd stand where the last war died before the next began.”

They made it to the top of the tower. Half the roof had fallen away leaving a gaping wound in the building. The wind ravaged it, tearing a few more pieces off. “Dragons?” Sam whispered, hinting at the damage.

Marwyn nodded. “The big one, so the villages say. Black thing – came up out of the water and burned everything. They're terrified it'll come and destroy the rest of the castle but it won't. I know where it's gone.”

“To the queen – at the Sunspear. The last town we passed through said there was a civil war under way.” Sam stopped to kneel beside the remains of a case. He prodded the ash with a piece of wood. It was a deluge of glass and iron. “You're right – there was a sword here but it's long gone. Marwyn? _Marwyn_ what are you doing...”

The ungainly man gripped the filthy stone and climbed onto the window sill where Ashara herself had lingered before the fall. He could feel her soul. The dead – they left tiny tears in the fabric of the world. Marwyn reached out precariously to touch them. He longed to glimpse, for a moment, what was in their heart at that final breath. He was overwhelmed with her sorrow.

Sam tugged sharply on Marwyn's cloak. “Please, come down from there,” Sam insisted. “You'll fall and then I'll have to explain it to Gilly. She's in a mood enough as it is.”

Marwyn eventually stepped back from the edge. “Set your dragon down, Sam – over there where there's some warmth.”

Sam slipped the bag off his shoulder and placed it gently on the ground. The contents shifted uneasily as he undid the ties and nudged the mound within. Slowly, a crimson nose inched out then all at once _Ash_ slithered into the corner where the coals glowed. It stalked, around and around, drenching it scales in the soot.

“She's getting the scent of what she is,” Marwyn explained. “Dragons are an isolationist species. Their eggs are left in clutches, deep inside mountain ranges. They hatch alone and crawl out into the world to fend for themselves. Many Targaryens travelled to the Far East to learn about them. Theirs were all dying in captivity, becoming smaller and weaker with every Summer. Some of those travellers believed that dragons learn their ways from magical impressions left by others of their kind. We shall never know if that's true, of course but we have to try something or the poor thing will starve.”

*~*~*

 _Ash_ was too small to fly but the smoke in its throat had become a short burst of fire. She spent an hour stalking one of the seagulls across the shoreline while Marwyn and Sam looked on. Eventually, _Ash_ spread her wings and pounced, talons out. It clutched the feathered body as it bled and writhed, shredding feathers over the rock.

Sam flinched at the terrible squawks until _Ash_ coughed a tiny bolt of fire onto it. The dragon used one paw to hold the corpse still and then dipped its snout into the smoking flesh.

“Do you think it will grow as large as the queen's dragons?” Sam asked.

“Perhaps larger,” Marwyn admitted. “This egg comes from Asshai where the creatures are wild. Hers come from Targaryen dragons bred in captivity for hundreds of years. Longer, even and inbred. Large as Drogon is, historically speaking, he is average. I hear that pale dragon in the North is larger. There are others out there from the black mountains beyond the Lands of Always Winter. They say those are the largest of them all.”

“Silverwing... I think,” Sam added. “At least, I did a great deal of reading while I was at Castle Black and the dragon in the North matches the description of Silverwing. It's possible that she is the mother of the Queen's dragons.” Sam looked down at his little scarlet dragon. “Do you think Ash is safe? What if the other dragons try to kill her?”

“There's no way to know what they'll do. It's a risk. And you be careful – calling her a 'queen'. There is a sea of blood between Daenerys and the throne of Westeros.”

They rowed with the tide, returning to the jetty where Gilly waited. Little Sam fussed in her arms. He was getting bigger every day with a set of bright eyes surveying the world. They were bluer than the ice.

“I paid our way on a ship.” Gilly led them around the docks to the larger piers that reached all the way into the deep bay. Several ships knocked against the ailing wood while their sails sagged, preparing to leave. They boarded, with Sam turning pale the moment his feet met the deck. “He isn't so brave on the water,” Gilly whispered to Marwyn.

“That is most impractical when so much water separates us.”

Gilly laughed softly as the ship's ropes were thrown over the side and the vessel pulled away from the dock. A faint trail of smoke from the towers left a mark on the horizon. “He is not much of a horseman either. Though he may deny it, part of Sam is still a lord longin' fer the carriages of his father.”

“Those soft things are at a close.”

Gilly leaned against the rail with her child. She breathed the air deep and closed her eyes to the warmth. This would be the last time the sun would have the strength to warm her skin. The North was drawing her in, refusing to let her escape.

*~*~*

A pack of women draped in robes faded from years in the Dornish desert clustered around Marwyn's rotund form. They hissed at each other, tugging their hoods down. Red Priestesses. They were flocking into the light all over the realm. Their powers had been shifting since the emergence of dragons. It made them bold enough to preach – drawing curious eyes from the Dornish who were by default barely aware of gods.

Marwyn left them huddling on the shaded side of the ship as it left the mouth of the river and crossed the rough water toward the shipping lane. There were other sails on the perfect sapphire water and a haze of smoke in the North-East.

He found Sam bent over the rail, clutching on for life as the ship veered from side to side, knocked about by rows of waves that had raced across the _Sunset Sea_ to break over the nearby reef.

“Not – quite – at the – moment...” Sam bent further, resting his head against the wood. Marwyn had been constant in his training since they'd left the Citadel.

“Yes, now – Tarly,” he insisted. “You came all this way to train as a maester. I may have many faults as a teacher and engage in things I suggest you avoid but it is still my duty to ensure you learn. Learn you _shall._ ” He stepped back when Sam heaved over the side. “Though perhaps we might begin with apothecary...” For magic was no use against the ills of the sea.

###  **WINTERFELL – THE NORTH**

“ _Lord Robin Arryn is dead.”_ Petyr murmured the words to himself as his mind caught fire. _The boy is dead_ and Petyr's tenuous claim to _The Vale's_ army had died with him.

“This presents a great problem for you...” Sansa loomed like a ghoul at the edge of his tent. The fire caught her trailing furs in a frightening shadow that grew larger as she approached. “I have ravens as well. My little birds whisper like yours do. Everything with a wing in the North will carry the same words.”

Petyr considered tossing the paper into the fire but what good would that do him? He could no sooner erase the words than the deed itself. “Claimed by the Moon Door he loved so dearly,” he replied. “His little body with all its fine clothes was broken over the mountains of The Vale before he had the chance to live. I dare say,” his casual tone spoke of death and gain in a single breath, “it is somewhat of a calamity.”

“For you-”

“For _both_ of us,” he corrected, catching Sansa's eye. “Their army holds this position and your safety. The lords of The Vale are selfish individuals with short eyesight and a worrying disregard for survival. It is only a matter of time before they recall their men and make a nest up in the mountains to wait out the war. I will not be able to stop them.”

Sansa felt her chest clench. He was right. “Where does the line of succession fall?”

“Arryn is an unusually sickly house – very nearly extinct. Imagine that, even with blood of the Andals rushing through their veins nearly all have died young.” Almost certainly by design. The usurpers of _The Vale_ possessed patience not even Littlefinger could muster.

“Yes, though that is not what I asked, Lord Baelish.” Her question was met with a darkening set of eyes. “Ah... no one. Arryn is finished.”

“Whomever pushed that poor boy to his death considers himself worthy of the usurper's role. Their identity will not remain a secret for long.” Petyr started to pace, thumbing the letter over and over. There were many options, none of which he particularly wished to pursue. The risks were stacked heavily against their success. “The timing could not be worse,” he added. “I must ride for The Vale.”

Sansa blocked his path. It was not like him to behave rashly. Unsettled, she placed a hand on his chest to still him. “You cannot possibly think to ride alone.”

“You are right, Lady Sansa, I will require an escort I can trust. We have a mere flicker in time – the faintest disturbance in the veil of chaos to prevail. We cannot falter. To fail is to die.”

Sansa withdrew to grip onto her own arms, folding them across her chest. Winter eroded more than the stone walls. He desperate. The North unnerved Littlefinger. He'd brushed too close to death within its bounds. She could read it on his face and in his eyes. Sansa wondered if her mother had seen it too.

“Take the Mormonts.” She advised. “If nothing else, they serve the North. Come... Are you afraid to ask?”

“You are their queen, not I.”

Even in their dire position, Sansa smiled at his misplaced fear. “I will speak to Lyanna myself. You – well _you_ better have a plan. I can only deliver you to The Vale. It is up to you to take it. Do not fail, Lord Baelish...”

 _She is strong_ , Petyr found himself staring long after she'd left. Within the Winter snows, Lady Stark had become the Queen of Winter itself. _Beautiful as well_... He was painfully aware that for all his careful scheming, Sansa could tear his world to shreds. It both enamoured and terrified his stone heart. When he looked at her he saw death. His own.

*~*~*

“You are not going to offer an objection?”

Sansa and Lyanna stood among a hail of black feathers. The young Mormont was feeding the ravens, tossing hand-fulls of fatty off-cuts from the last hunt. Beaks tore at the flesh, fighting wildly.

“Should I?” Lyanna asked, finishing. “I trust it is not a request you make of me lightly.”

“No. It is not.”

“And that it is somehow necessary to preserve your safety?”

“Yes.”

“And the security of the North?”

“Of course.”

Lyanna's eyes were small but also sharp. They split apart people's souls. “Seven can go and to that number I recommend you add a dozen Wildlings. Bloodyaxe is a reliable leader. I would also like to speak to Lord Baelish myself as a condition of this loan before he rides to The Vale.”

“I can hardly refuse you, Lady Mormont.”

“Interesting...” Lyanna observed, as they descended from the only undamaged tower in _Winterfell_. They kept the ravens there so they'd be safe from the marauding packs of wolves that had moved into the forest, following the trail of corpses. “Now that your brother, Lord Snow-”

“Stark. Lord Stark...”

“ _Stark_ ,” Lyanna corrected herself, “has travelled South, you believe your authority has diminished. I'll tell you what I see,” the Mormont continued, blunt as ever. If it wasn't an actual punch to the face, it was a metaphoric one. “Your sway over Winterfell is tenfold when you stand alone. The time for Kings has come and gone. Listen to the whispers on the wings of our ravens. Queens are rising – you among them.”

Sansa brushed snow from her eyelashes. “It is difficult to see as you do when the snows are falling and the people in Winterfell starve.”

“My Lady...” Lyanna set down her bucket of scraps and traipsed over the ice-locked ground. “If this plot succeeds, we will be making Petyr Baelish a very powerful man. Neither of us will have the strength to challenge him, perhaps for years. Before you create something, make sure you possess the means to its undoing.”

A shiver ran through Sansa's skin that had nothing to do with the cold. “I have no choice. His power is the key to our security. What else can we do?”

“There are always choices, Lady Stark. My offer of assistance is yours to do with as you wish. Lord Baelish is not the only person who can mount a horse and ride South. Whatever you choose... The Mormonts will always serve the Starks as we have done for a thousand years.” She dipped her head respectfully.

*~*~*

“What is this, Lady Mormont?” Petyr asked, as he was handed a roll of parchment. He unravelled it to find a list of names scrawled in the young ruler's hand. It was clear that she had prepared this herself without the consent or knowledge of her counsellors. He read through the names – suspicion shifted to certainly. It was a list of the dead. Petyr scoffed. “Are you proposing I kill all these men?”

The early morning light was soft. It left the sweeping drifts of snow around _Winterfell_ a blushing pink. Serene in its beauty, a man could lose himself in view and forget the wolves gathering behind _and there were plenty of wolves._ They howled at dusk, gathering into packs whenever night crept over the curtain of the world.

“I propose nothing, Lord Baelish,” Lyanna replied. “These are the men who _must_ die if you want to walk away with The Vale's army. Show it to my men when you are past the forest. They will not have to look far for those names. Each one will be on his way to the great council meeting that is held to decide the legitimacy of succession.”

“Is this a trick? Encouraging me to kill noble lords so that I might incriminate myself?”

 _He is an idiot_ . Like all men, his ego weighed heavier than his balls. “Lord Baelish, _I am killing these men_. You are being given a crown so that you might protect the North but do not find yourself under any illusions. Betray me and Winter will feel like a dream of Spring.”

Baelish wisely tucked the list inside his sleeve. “The North is fortunate to have you as a warden. Not many are up to such _cold_ tasks.”

“Fierce deeds create fierce people, Lord Baelish,” she warned. “Or so my maesters caution.”

*~*~*

Podrick watched the party leave in a rush of hooves and steel. They were absorbed by the _Wolfswood_ and replaced by the perpetual stillness only found in a world locked by ice.

He'd taken to wandering through the _Godwood_ during these moments before the sun cleared the pines. The half-light made the world seem like a dream that might vanish under his touch. Podrick was drawn to the flame-leafed tree with its howling face. Saplings shot up around it, peaking out of the snow.

He habituated a comfortable rock by the steaming pool. While he sharpened his sword, he told the face stories if only to give Brienne's ear a rest. Talking kept him calm.

The sword across his knees was nicked from Brienne's constant training. At first the Lady of Tarth had been reluctant to encourage Podrick in an activity he so clearly lacked talent for but now it was essential to survival. She had become serious – snapping if he lost focus. Every now and then she'd hit him with the dull edge of her sword and send him flying into the snow before growling, _'Again!'_

Brienne wore that same look of ill-patience when she appeared by the entrance of a Stark tomb.

“I have been searching for you since dawn,” she grunted, climbing out of the pines. They dragged across her head leaving wet hair plastered sharply against her forehead while thick layers of fur hit her ankles. It was a soft, golden brown and swelled with the breeze. The heat from the pool made the ice crack underfoot. “You'll freeze – always sitting about in the bloody snow. No sense at all.”

Podrick's rock slid along the edge of his sword, drowning the air in a sorrowful note. “It's warm an n' all by the pool. Better than the castle. No matter how many stones they put back in them walls, it's still a draughty maze.”

Brienne eyed the remaining turret through the trees. “You're not wrong, Podrick but it is closer to being a castle today than it was when we arrived. For now, that will have to do.” The steam from the pond reached her as a bank of vapour. Instinct drew her closer. “Unnatural,” she nodded at the water. “You have to wonder what else is down there to keep the ground boiling in weather like this.”

“You mean other than that dragon?”

Reluctantly, Brienne took her place beside Podrick and examined his work. He was uncommonly good at wearing down a blade.

“You never sharpen yours,” he noted, nodding at _Oathkeeper_.

“Valyrian steel does not blunt,” she ran her thumb tenderly over the gilded handle. “Even the oldest of their kind are as sharp as they day they were forged. Magic, some say.”

“That blacksmith would say otherwise. He's making one as we speak. Gendry let me watch. What? Why are you laughing?”

“Make a Valyrian blade? You think he can? You have been led astray.”

“He reforged your sword from the Stark blade,” Gendry replied. “And his master was trained in the East where these things are not entirely lost. Besides, he doesn't strike me as the type to brag about something he can't do.”

“I don't care if he forges another Iron Throne so long as he keeps out of trouble. Lady Sansa needs him alive.”

“To auction him off at a later date...” His tone dropped.

Brienne fixed him with a stern look. “Or marry him. What – you haven't considered it? If Sansa weds a Baratheon with a claim to the Iron Throne, there's a chance to unite the kingdom without more bloodshed.”

“I'm sure the Lannisters would have something to say about that. She's still wed to one of them.”

Brienne eyed her golden sword. “Indeed. I am sure they would.” Even now she thought she could see their golden cloaks scattered between the swaying pines.

*~*~*

“Forgive me, my Lady, but I will not ride out in weather like this.” Ser Davos referred to the state of uncertainty among the men rather than the threatening cold. He was still dressed in his travelling clothes with a heavy purse strung around his waist for the ride South. His horse waited at the wall, pawing the stone.

“My brother is expecting you.”

“Lord Snow would not look on me kindly if he heard that I had left you here in Winterfell at a time like this. Littlefinger may not be everyone's idea of security but without him skulking about I can't help but feel our position is vulnerable. The men of The Vale in your service have developed a certain reverence for you and Jon but they dislike the fierce cold and have an uneasy view of the land. A betting man would side with desertion. I've seen it before.”

“And if the worst befell us?”

“You'd be easy pickings. Recalling the Wildlings and what's left of the Houses loyal to you would not be enough.”

Sansa raised her hand to stop him. “I agree. This position cannot be defended without The Vale. I was serious about honouring my pledge. Whatever happens, I will find a way to remain inside Winterfell – in the crypts if I have to. Now please, Ser Davos, _go_.” He would not. “You defy me?” Sansa asked, more confused than angry.

“Ay, I do,” Davos replied.

There was no swaying him. “If you insist, can you organise for provisions to be moved to the crypts? Quietly – of course. I don't want word reaching any of The Vale's men that I am preparing for their desertion.”

This time Davos nodded, bowing to her will. He left the Wolf Queen in the claustrophobia of the crypts and emerged in the centre of the square. _Winterfell_ was rising around him, stone by stone. Every morning the walls met the sun, a little higher than before. The dull _'clank'_ of the blacksmiths was a constant march. Gendry worked alone at the largest forge, churning out swords. He caught sight of young Lyanna Mormont crossing through the mud while he tended his horse. She stalked the world and it offered no resistance. Part of Davos wanted to think of her as fondly as he had done Shireen but the Mormont clawed at affection.

“I know...” Davos cooed at his horse. “Thought you were going South to the warmth, didn't you? Well, not yet.”

The horse – deathly black with a silver patch on its forehead, flicked her ears sharply in reply.

*~*~*

Brienne walked the edge of the forest trailed by a group of _Wildlings_ . They were hunting rabbit, deer and anything else foolish enough to show its fur. Deeper, she could hear the constant growl of wolves feasting. There were hundreds of them in the surrounding wilderness. Every night they grew bolder, sneaking into camp – taking horses and men too drunk to stand. They were all dragged away into the black. _A flicker of gold_.

A _Wildling_ jumped across her path, diving into the snow with his arms outstretched. He scrambled back to his feet with a squirrel writhing frantically in his grasp. He grinned at the poor thing maliciously then snapped its head to the side and handed it to one of the others.

*~*~*

“I can smell them,” Bronn said, as they moved through the forest. It was thickening around them to the point of choking. Their horses struggled, ploughing into fresh snow that was nearly waist deep. Soon, the paths North would become completely impassable. “Death smells different when it's frozen.”

“That's the wolves...” he replied, making sure the army kept itself close together. “They've got a stink about them when they form large packs. With all that's happened recently, they've become a plague. There...” The trees ahead were beginning to thin. Beyond them lied a bowl of ice and snow with a castle crumbled at its heart. “It looks _sad_ ,” Jaime remarked, signalling for the army to hold back.

Bronn followed, using the heavy limbs of pines to pull his legs out of particularly deep sections of powder. They crouched into it at the ridge, keeping out of sight.

“Tha' was definitely a dragon,” Bronn pointed out the terrible scars left on the building.

“Surely you don't believe that story – a dragon coming out from underneath a castle?”

He nodded. “I believe it 'cause it's true. One of them women in the tavern at Fairmark said she saw it.”

“Oh well then it _must be_ true. Dragon or not, their walls aren't back to strength. An attack would be easy...” Jaime trailed off mid-thought. There was a party of hunters a few hundred yards away walking the perimeter of the forest. “Brienne...” he breathed.

Bronn narrowed his eyes and inched forward, craning his neck. “So it is. Big cunt – easier to spot in the snow than the grass.”

They retreated their position and Jaime drew his men away from the edge of the forest before they were spotted. All afternoon they remained there in silence while Jaime wandered, lost in thought. He was stopped by a stern hand on his shoulder.

“I know what you've come to say, Bronn and I don't want to hear it. Not now.”

“Yer do want to 'ere it because we're all freezin' ter death back 'ere.” He refused to move. “The way I see it, there's another option. Yer don' have to start a slaughter an' yer don' have to kill _her_ either.” That's what had his cock in a twist. Greatest knight the kingdom had ever seen. Ruthless _kingslayer_. The golden lion. Jaime was all of these things and yet he hid in the shadows in fear of her blood.

“All right...” Jaime turned roughly to Bronn. “What are you suggesting?”

“A quieter approach. You can serve your sister _and_ keep your word to Eddard's wife. You can even keep 'er if yer do this right.”

*~*~*

The crypts of _Winterfell_ were full of mist and unexplained howling winds that blasted through the tunnels fast enough to snuff its torches. _It is the heat_ , thought Sansa, as she braced herself at the entrance of another tunnel. The warm air below was warring with the freezing currents above and where it met – chaos.

Her Small Council had made their nests in empty tombs, warding them with straw. At least the constant rush of air kept the stench of lamp oil at bay. A guard nodded as she approached her quarters. Within, there was no fire, a single bed pushed against the wall beside a stone casket and a deep crack in the rock where a few broken tiles had fallen and smashed. Their remnants crunched underfoot as she lit another lantern. Sansa was growing to love the darkness. There was safety in it. The feel of solid stone on all sides was all the comfort she could hope for.

A hand came from the darkness and wrapped around her mouth. Sansa fought wildly. As she was dragged backwards, another arm came up, crushing her waist and lifting her from the ground. The smell of sweat and leather hit her face. _A soldier_. She reached out for anything – swiping at the table.

As quickly as it began, it stopped. A loud blow landed on the man that held her, knocking them both onto the bed. Sansa rolled, falling off the bed onto the floor. She could hear fighting above – heavy fists striking over and over. She reeled around, picking up her fruit knife from the table.

There were two men brawling in the back of her room, weaving in and out of the weak lamplight. They were both large but one was _immense_. His long hair whipped around as the two of them locked arms and tried to force each other against the wall. Her breath died on her lips.

“Ser Clegane...”

The Hound had the upper hand, linking his arm under the other man's chin. He pushed up, gripping tight until the man's eyes rolled back and he went limp. Sandor Clegane dropped him carelessly onto the bed. The girl was staring – finally seeing him after these past days he'd spent lingering around the camp – watching over her.

“As you see,” he replied, staying at the edge of the light. “Little bird...” he added. Moments passed and the great beast of a man found himself kneeling to the ground, his head dipped forward. He'd been to the depths of the gods' fury since their last meeting and he wore it on his face. _So did she_. His head lifted. _Who broke his little bird?_ “I came looking for you, months ago, with a gift.” Still, she had said nothing. “Your sister.”

“Arya?” Sansa found the words in the back of her throat. “Arya was with the Brotherhood Without Banners – in the Riverlands...”

“That is where I found her,” his words were awkward. “She was alive last time I saw 'er.” A darkness lay over the young Stark. Sandor recognised it. He'd waded through it countless times himself. He had been right. The world came for and snapped both her wings. Now she was a raven with the taste of blood.

“W-why are you here?” Sansa asked, still gripping the small knife.

“I am a knight,” he replied, “an' there are no kings worth serving. Thought I might as well serve who I please.”

The knife slipped from her hand and fell to the stone in a clamour. She remembered their last meeting with such clarity. The ravages of war outside her window. The harbour burning. A green hue in the darkness and the distant screams of dying men. She should have gone with him that day. He'd have taken her North to defend it and instead of wedding Ramsey she might have tied him to a pyre.

“There it is...” Sandor continued, looking past her facade. “Violence. You are a killer now.”

“And who is that?” Sansa stepped closer to the man that lay in the bed.

“That one is a Lannister man,” he replied, prodding the man's back. “Seen him a few times. A favourite of the Kingslayer.”

“A Lannister – this far North?”

He shifted uneasily. “There's a whole army of them out there in the woods,” he warned. “They've got the numbers to take Winterfell but they've held back. Now we know why. They sent a man to kill you.” He unsheathed his sword. “We should send them back the head.”

Sansa reached out to take his arm. The light touch stilled Sandor. “No. Leave him. I want to hear what he has to say before you string him from the castle wall.”

*~*~*

The ropes crushed his ribs. Bronn pushed against them, breathing deeply of the cool air. His wrists too and his legs. All of it was lashed together and then again to the chair. A groan dragged from his lips. His head felt like it had a couple of holes in it.

“This is impolite...” Bronn muttered, blinking back gravel from his eyes. _Must've been out for a while._

“You tried to kill me.”

The Stark girl had grown into a woman. She towered above most of her company in the room – except the dog-knight. “I came here to negotiate,” Bronn insisted. “In confidence.”

“Why would you negotiate? You've an army in my woods and the advantage of our castle's current state. It is no secret your man could take us.”

Davos and Podrick stood to one side, Brienne the other. It was her that Bronn's gaze fell on. “I've a message from Ser Jaime Lannister. This he swears on the oath he made over a sword that soldier of yours carries.”

Brienne shifted uneasily. Podrick offered a half-smile at his old friend. It was all he could do for the moment while they lingered on opposing sides. “I – I think – perhaps, we could hear his words. At least.”

Davos was the most suspicious of them all. He warned against it but found himself standing among old friends and uncertain allegiances. _Everything's a bloody mess,_ he thought, as the ropes were loosened enough for the man to sit which he did, hissing complaints at the state of the chair.

“Jaime Lannister didn't march this army all the way up North because he wants to pick a fight,” Bronn began, “he was sent 'ere by his sister. Cersei's a mad bloody cunt,” he added, off hand, “and she thinks you killed her son, the king. She'd kill every last soldier in the realm if it meant your head on a spike or your body danglin' outside her window.”

“I did not kill the king,” Sansa protested, trying to fight the tremor in her hand. _An army at her gates and she unable to hold her position._ “Though I am beginning to wish that I did.”

“I believe you,” Bronn shrugged. “He was a right cunt as well. Someone was bound to do it. More importantly, Jaime does not believe you did it either. He made a vow – to your mother – that he would see you safely home.”

“I am home...”

“Yes but you are a long way from safe, Lady Stark.”

She shook her head. “I do not understand what you are offering.”

Bronn's gaze continued to shift between Podrick and Brienne. They knew him well enough to hear the truth in his words. “He offers a mummer's dragon. A piece of theatre. An illusion sufficient to keep Cersei's rage at bay. Offer no resistance to the Lannister army. Let them hold Winterfell in name and no one needs to die.”

Fury rose in her eyes. “Winterfell belongs to the Starks...” she hissed. “We ripped it from the Bolton's at great cost. What makes you think we'll lay down and let a Lannister have it? _They killed my father. My mother. My brother..._ ”

“Because, My Lady, if you let the Lannister army inside these walls Jaime swears that he will use his men to defend it and allow you serve as warden of the North. Then, when Cersei's eye is drawn elsewhere, he will leave. He _swears_ it.” He turned to Brienne and repeated. “Swears...”

*~*~*

Podrick was left alone to guard Bronn while the rest discussed the offer. “He hit you hard,” Podrick pointed to the bruise ravishing Bronn's forehead.

“Hurts like hell.”

“Bet it does.” An odd pause. Podrick stepped closer the knelt on the ground in front of the chair where Bronn was tied up. “I'm sorry – about this.”

“Me too. I didn' plan on getting smashed in the face. That ugly bugger came out of nowhere.” Another pause. “Good to see you alive. Wasn' sure you know, watching you ride off. Barely mount a horse last I knew.”

Podrick laughed. “I've seen things up here that you wouldn't believe but Bronn – Lady Sansa won't agree to the deal. You're asking her to submit to a man whose family has cost her everything she loves. It's a _crazy_ idea.”

“My idea, thank you very much, young Podrick. It was a damn sight better than havin' us all out there bleedin' in the snow. If I'm going to die I want it to be somewhere warm. With a view. Perhaps by the sea. There's no glory dying knee-deep in fuckin' ice drowned in leathers. How can you tell once corpse from the next?”

Podrick shook his head in amazement. “You worry about the wrong things. How many men do you have?”

“Enough. Podrick look – if this goes to shit...”

“I'll be standing in the snow,” he replied sadly, before Bronn could finish. “She'd face him too, you know. Brienne is a hard one. You and I both know who walks away from that.”

They were interrupted by Sansa and her party. She took another look at Bronn. “You served my first husband, Tyrion Lannister.” She waited as he nodded in reply. “I remember. He spoke of you quite often. Of all the things he said, he never once had cause to doubt your loyalty. I am going to take you at your word that you believe this offer to be true.”

“However...”

“However... I have an unusual request to make in return.”

*~*~*

The horses aligned in single file across the front of _Winterfell_. Every hand that could hold a sword joined them in a motionless display. Protected by the forest, no one could see Jaime's men, freezing and tired, falling over their own feet.

As Jaime broke from the shadows he stared at the old, broken corpse of a castle and found no will to fight it. Its legacy was greater than petty battle. Even in disrepair _Winterfell_ commanded something of all who looked upon it. Instead of heading toward it, Jaime turned right and made his way across the ice toward the _Godwood_ alone.

Brienne was waiting for him beneath a rugged _Weirwood_ , so heavy with snow that it dipped its branches into the steaming pool beneath. She waited with one hand on _Oathkeeper_.

Jaime lifted both his hands at her obvious unease. “How can I earn your trust?”

She wasn't sure it was possible. His blood and his heart lay in the clutches of golden claws. Brienne prepared herself.

“I am here to find out,” she replied. “That is far enough, Ser Jaime.” He stopped obediently but there was sadness in his eyes. “About the late king – you should know how sorry I am – for you...” He held up a hand, begging her to stop. “Regarding your offer – I believe you. If nothing else, King's Landing will need this army very soon. Wasting men in the North could be fatal for your nephew's throne. I also believe that you were serious about your pledge to Catelyn Stark. I even believe that you will allow Sansa to rule as Warden of the North while your men hold Winterfell because you are tired of politics and senseless death.”

“Then I do not understand, why has Lady Stark not agreed to my terms?”

“I asked her to wait until we could speak.” This time, it was Brienne that closed the distance between them, coming within a few steps. Jaime was drawn out, thin and paler than before. Months in the snow wore through his gold cloak. Kings. Soldiers. _Wildlings_. They were all just men in the end. “If you are going to hold the heart of the North, you need to understand what has happened and what might come to pass while you are here. We are fighting our own war – against the dead.”

His face dropped. A mixture of denial and confusion. “Is that a Lord or-”

“The Wildlings you've no doubt seen in our camp are among the last alive. The Night's Watch allowed them to flee straight through the gates at Wall but not before a devastating battle took place at the Northern harbour of Hardhome. It was a massacre, Jaime.”

“It wouldn't be the first.”

“And when they were dead,” she continued, begging that he let her finish, “their bodies were lifted from the ground and set again to fighting. This is the Winter that was promised. The Wall holds back the dead – for now but sooner or later they will find a way into Westeros and Winterfell is all that will stand between the empire and destruction.”

“Dead men cannot return, Brienne. These Northerns, they see a lot of things in the snow – things that aren't real. It's the cold. The maesters think it's sends them mad.”

“Lord Snow was slaughtered before the entire Night's Watch. He was dead for days before the Red Witch raised him. He's alive for all the world to see. Dead men are rising, Jaime, if only you could see... You and I are from the South. Magic isn't in our bones. That does not change what I have seen and if you stay here, you will see it too. If I am to trust you – you will need to trust me. Jamie, if you stay, will you defend Winterfell and your oath?”

“From opportunistic lords or hoards or the undead?”

“Both...”

“Do you believe a time will come when you and I are on the same side?”

“I dream of it,” she admitted, “when the snow falls heavy and the blue roses grow. There are times I long for the Great War where we can stand side by side.”

A long time passed before either of them spoke again. “I'll be spending some time here, then, waiting for the snow.”

*~*~*

“This is weird...” Bronn and Podrick sat side by side at the table for the evening. Their cups were filled with mead and several fires were stocked into life, warming the Stark feast hall. The chandelier sat empty above, its candles laying in pools of wax on the floor. “Lannisters sitting with Wildlings.”

Podrick agreed, nodding while he sipped his drink. The two cultures could not clash more violently. The pinnacle of civilisation had met the ocean tide. “Is it just me, or are the divisions of men breaking apart in the North?”

Bronn flinched. “You sound like Tyrion.” He smirked. “Bet you he's still alive an' all. He found his dragon. Mind you, it'll be a hell of a mess when he returns to Westeros with it. You'd think a man so fond of history would know that dragons are bad news.” Not that anyone had ever been able to stop that tiny lion from doing anything. “For the moment I'm satisfied with this drink and that fire. It's all any of us can hope for at the moment. We might die in this ruin if it gets any colder.”

“When Winter comes to kill you – it bangs on the door.”

Bronn looked into the depths of his cup. “There's no time for riddles at the end of the world.”

Across the hall, Sansa offered Ser Clegane a plate of wild boar. Though he was still tall and broad, he'd been whittled down to skin and muscle, living off wolf meat. His companion bowed low to her. He wore the gold cloak of a Lannister but introduced himself as a Hornwood.

“I know you,” Sansa frowned curiously.

“Yes – well, of a sorts. I came to Winterfell in my early teens for the Festival of Ice. You were polite enough but your sister hit me with a pine branch.” Clegane found this greatly amusing. The Hornwood cleared his throat and continued. “I deserted the Lannister army. They have not noticed yet but it'd be best, I mean, I request that you allow me to serve under your protection. I ran from the Lannisters not out of fear but to avoid killing the men of the Riverlands – your kin, My Lady.”

She agreed but insisted on his gold cloak which she tossed into the flames.

###  **MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON – THE VALE OF ARRYN**

There was a resonance to the sound of hooves pounding their way across the ice. It echoed off the leering cliffs which struck through the ground and clawed at the sky like sets of knives. Some leaned over the road, casting shadows that went for miles. While beneath one of these colossus, Petyr looked up. Its underside was a nest of moss, desert succulents and lichen with arms of shocking green that reached for the ground.

Ahead, these violent intrusions into the world transformed into mountains, twice as high as any near _Winterfell_. _The Vale_ was nestled among these terrifying, impossible peaks. Lines of pines tried to scale their flanks but died as soon as the black stone sheered near vertical. Even the snow, which had been falling heavy in recent weeks, struggled to hold onto the cliffs. It left them more black than white – a shadow on the horizon ahead.

At their back lounged the grey water of _The Bite._ It was whipped up by the winds, capped with foam and the three islands at its heart nearly impossible to make out from the fog that kept to the water – except for their volcanic peaks. Those three formidable cones loomed over the mist as though rising from the clouds.

They kept off the _King's Road_. These days it was full of the desperate, a thousand prying eyes and a Lannister army.

The _Wildlings_ tugged their horses to a stop as the track ended. Petyr gave his horse a gentle kick, moving to the front of the convoy.

“Quietly now,” he warned. “The Mountain Tribes of The Vale are beyond these ranges.”

Even the Mormonts and _Wildlings_ wondered how any civilisation could survive in a ruthless place like this. “How long since you've been this way?” One of them asked.

Petyr kept a tight hold on the reins as he searched for the goat track that ran through the mountains. “When I was a boy. It is the only other way into The Vale. Dangerous as it is, we've more chance against the cliffs than the murderers stalking the roads. This place will dissolve into anarchy – if it hasn't already.”

*~*~*

The boy, Lord Robin Arryn, had always been a commodity for Petyr. A useful piece in his game that he could control with relative ease. The boy lacked a father or anything resembling a friend. With the withering Lords of The Vale his only competition, he'd won Robin over easily. Now Petyr wondered if those moments of feigned affection added up to something more substantial. He thought of the unforgiving mountain rocks and Robin's tiny head smashing against them. What must he thought as he fell? Did he believe he was flying?

They paused in the throat of a mountain. Ahead, _The Eyrie_ appeared, balanced precariously where the clouds wandered. It was an impossibility that men had forgotten how to build.

“See the lights?” Petyr pointed to the clusters of light appearing along one of the mountain tops as dusk drew to a close. “These are the Lords of The Vale closing in on the castle.” His entourage suddenly felt inadequate for the bloody task ahead.

*~*~*

The boy's coffin sat in the centre of the _High Hall of the Eyrie_. It was empty. Draped in lavish silks and a flourish of heather in a false show of despair. Petyr's stomach dropped at the sight. He wondered how many empty coffins lay in his wake? This one wasn't his. He reached out, pressing both his hands to the old wood. His eyes closed and to his surprise a prayer left his lips. The Old Gods stirred. He could feel them, brushing against the floor where a thin layer of stone separated the palace from the fall.

“Lord Baelish...” One of the lords approached. There was a gathering of them near the throne at the top of the stairs. _Trying it out_ , Petyr thought cruelly. “I did not expect you to pay your respects in person. Winterfell is a great distance.”

“My son in law's sudden death is _greatly_ distressing,” Petyr replied. “And unexpected.”

“The boy had a fascination with the Moon Door. This time it went to far.”

Petyr sized up the lord. He was average height but broad and strong with arms built for lugging axes around. “And with his death left The Vale in a difficult position, one which you wish to resolve _quickly_.” The lord nodded. “There are many ancient houses in The Vale, all of which can trace their right to contest the seat. How to decide?”

Part of Petyr could feel the men on Lyanna's list expiring as they spoke. Their throats slit. Bodies tossed from windows. While he lingered with these lords on familiar ground where they felt safe, his men were decimating their protection. Soon, the lords would be defenceless. Petyr marvelled at how easy victory was if you were prepared to do the unthinkable.

“If you wouldn't mind I'd like some privacy to say a few words to the boy before he is buried. He was, after all, _family._ ” And Petyr was within his customary rights to demand it. All he needed was those conspiring men to take their whispers to another room. When they were gone, he returned to the coffin. At least there was no corpse to rest those haunting painted stones upon. Those cold eyes staring into nowhere sank into his nightmares. He dreamed of faces hidden by them. A wall of death. Those he'd killed and those he loved. “You weren't meant to die,” he whispered. “That much I can be honest about. You were her nephew and she loved you – I misjudged your keepers.”

Several of the stone doors lining the room ground across their tracks. Shields scraped against the armoured hands that held them. Boots marched in double file, perfectly orchestrated through each of the doors. Petyr spun around to see the guard of honour file in and circle his position leaving him with nowhere to run but the Moon Door. He could feel its presence behind him. The breath of cold air at his neck.

The Lords of The Vale followed their soldiers. They assembled in a line, each with eyes agleam. Their prey was cornered. Patience won.

“Lord Baelish, we were expecting you.”

 _Those faces_ , Petyr scanned the lords, _they should all be dead by now. Where had his escort gone? What became of the Bears and Wildlings?_

“Of course,” he replied, treading carefully. “I would not miss the funeral of my son in law. Dear, beloved child of-” Petyr was stopped as one of them raised their hand.

“That is quite enough of your false mourning cries. You may look like a man – sound like a man but Baelish, we all see through your mimicry. The late Lord Eddard Stark warned us about you. We have strived, from that moment, to protect his surviving daughter from your schemes and restore peace to our neighbouring realms. We seek to avoid the war you long for.”

Blindly, Petyr reached backwards, placing his hand on the coffin to steady himself. He could feel the jaws of the trap snapping shut around him. The Lords of The Vale had lured him.

“Did you expect to find us a disorganised, warring mess, clamouring for power? I suppose you did. The Vale survives because of order. We have had succession plans drawn up for decades, kept in secret. I, Lord Baelish, am the new Lord of The Vale and you will remain here as our guest until we are ready to bring you to trial for the murder of Lady Lysa Arryn and conspiracy to murder Lord Jon Arryn.”

“No...” he protested weakly. Petyr was grabbed roughly by two of the guards. He struggled against them as they disarmed him of several daggers and the note tucked into his sleeve. The kill list was handed to the Lord of The Vale who brandished it as proof of Petyr's plan to murder them all.

“In the cells, if you please.” The Lord of _The Vale_ repeated the command. “The rest can go, as agreed.”

“No. No. _No..._ ” Petyr repeated, over and over as he was dragged from the room into the _Eyrie_ cells which slanted toward the raw drop. Thousands of feet. Who could know. He clutched the walls of his cell to preserve the feeling of security their stone held. He could not think of the drop beyond the edge of the stone. Every time he did, he saw Lysa fall – her boy as well. _I have been traded_ , he thought darkly but in exchange for what, he did not know. It could not be Sansa's doing. For all the darkness that lurked below the surface, she'd never toss him on the mercy of _The Vale._ Not after rescuing him so valiantly the first time.

###  **WINTERFELL – THE NORTH**

Lyanna waited in her tent, preferring to remain closer to the world. Many had set up homes in the crypts but a deep chill ran down her legs whenever she set foot in that place. Perhaps it was because the statue of Lyanna Stark stood beside her bones or that it had the wreak of a thousand years of death.

Her tent flap was tugged back frantically as the messenger entered, tripping over the mat on the floor and managing to knock a lantern at the same time. Lyanna calmly begged that he steady himself before continuing. She'd not have disarray around her. There was plenty of time for that when the war began. “Speak... I am listening.”

“From the Lords of The Vale,” he panted. “The terms you set out have been agreed. They have Lord Baelish in their cells and are returning the men sent with him – as agreed.

“...and The Vale's army?” she prompted impatiently. “That is the material point. Speak up...”

“Agreed as well. They are on loan to Lady Sansa, in honour of her father and for the sake of fostering peace and trade between the Northern frontiers and The Vale. They are, however, for show not blood.”

“Show is all I require,” Lyanna sighed deeply. “I presume you have a message for their general?” He nodded. “Then go to him now.”

 _Show_ was all Lyanna required because she knew full well that when the dead came, every man would be on his feet with a sword in hand. Allegiance and order were all for nothing when the gods come marching. There was one final message to be sent before she left to find Sansa. Lyanna settled herself at the chest serving as her desk and penned a note to Varys informing him of the Lannister army's position in the North. The Captial, for the moment, was weak enough for their dragon queen to sink her claws into. Dragons were not the Mormont's natural allies but Lyanna was prepared to do anything for the war lurking beyond _The Wall_.

 


	71. Seastone Chair of Ulthos

 

###  **THE THOUSAND ISLANDS – ESSOS**

Bu Gai struggled for breath. Ice in the air cut through his lungs while the strip of cloth wrapped around his waist was drawn tighter every day by the witches. They drowned the fabric in scented oil and layered _Ghostgrass_ against his skin. It burned right to his soul. Despite their foul chanting his sickness festered. Bu Gai was dying, slain more than a month ago by the creature from _Yin._ He was an emperor without an empire. The walking dead in a twilight world. He was _hope_.

To his left, dark water ate away at the shore. Pieces of broken ice lay over stones, unable to melt – pushed up and down by the tide. Fragments of ruined ships – bleached wood, shreds of canvas and glass were all wedged between the rocks in a graveyard of North-Eastern trade. Ahead, the beach curved to reveal the first of the _Thousand Islands._

They came into focus, looming behind the sea mist like spectres. Bu Gai narrowed his eyes at the horizon. Shadows upon shadows. Jagged peaks. Knobs of rock blanketed in Ironwood forests with their ink-blue leaves rustling in a false sea. Abandoned surges of rock curved like a dragon's spine. It went on – island after island after island.

“The gods live here...” Lorath exhaled, as the fog cleared. _Which gods_ he did not know.

He could see the crack in the cliff where the mainland of _Mossovy_ had broken away from the _Thousand Islands._ Clinging to the edge of the collapsing ridge were buildings made from black stone. Most had crumbled into the water, beached as ruins and coated in oil but a few of their misshapen forms survived. They reared right to the edge of the cliff, tilting toward the drop.

Lorath was the first to approach. He found a fragment of rock as long as a ship, fallen on its side with one end submerged in the freezing waves. It was a tentacle of impossible size, curled over itself, perfectly carved as though it were sawn off a titan living in the depths. Another waited ahead then more, all the way down the beach.

He stopped at the waterline and faced into the wind. _This_ , he thought, _is the heart of a city_. It lay in the islands, torn apart by an unimaginable event. The green-skinned inhabitants were probably remnants of those people, poisoned by the magic that destroyed them.

One of the women among Bu Gai's followers knew the area. She was old and scrambled over the beach ahead of the party with her walking stick striking the rocks. Every now and then she pointed to things, growling at Bu Gai who nodded and waved the rest of their caravan on. She led them to the first island. As the tide drew out, a thin land bridge emerged which they were able to walk across. The ground was slippery, covered in a layer of purple seaweed and stewed Ironwood leaves. Malformed fish flopped about, gasping. They had extra tails, no fins, eyes embedded along their spines... Every imaginable terror.

No one spoke as they stepped onto the oil-slicked beach of the first island. At any moment they might be set upon by the violent locals who were known to make live sacrifices to their watery gods. They were the things of sailors' nightmares.

This island, like _Nefer_ was abandoned. A wild series of shattered rock towered to their right in false mountains. Strange marine grass and vibrant orange flowers covered the formations except where lesions of stone protruded, melted into the bedrock. Lorath wandered toward the sweeping jetties on their left where _Ibbenese_ ships waited.

“Either they are dead or hiding in the central islands...” Lorath said. “A man wonders what they hide from, for we are nothing to fear.” He added, fixing his eyes on the sea beyond.

Empty and sea worthy, the boats were inundated. They loosened the sails and cast off the ropes. As the tide drew out further their ships were drawn into the dangerous harbour. Lorath kept his eyes at the centre of the islands, waiting for a flicker of life but only the mists shifted. This was the farthest corner of the word and yet there, barely a breath away, lay another tide of secrets.

The forms of enormous statues clung to the edges of the fog, tempting Lorath with their whispers. _The ancient gods of the sea had come here to die..._ Lorath thought. Their restless souls haunted the shallow pools of water between the shattered rock and the curious, reptile-like people fed their despair with foreign blood. He recorded what he could, sketching onto strips of parchment as their fleet of ships abandoned the wasteland. There were no birds to send his words so he kept them.

Even the water, usually a perfect imitation of sapphire, drank in all the light. Its surface turned to shale as they reached deep water. The shoreline remained visible while they sailed West but it was swiftly fading into a blur of shadows. To their right lay the vast unknown and somewhere, directly in front, the lands of _Always Winter._ Thousands of miles of open water and several free cities of _Essos_ lay between them and the wastelands of ice.

Reality hit Lorath for the first time. They were sailing into a war on the command of a dragon's dreams. He wasn't a man of war. He was a poet. A traveller at best. _He was going to die before the first arrow._

Bu Gai draped a shawl over the man from Lorath and pointed toward the first block of ice. Lorath nodded politely and pulled the thick fabric around his freezing limbs. What looked like a small protrusion of ice from a distance evolved into a monstrous floating island, gleaming in the sun. The ship navigated around it, passing close enough that Lorath thought he might touch it. The ice had partially melted. Where it was thin and transparent, Lorath could see a distorted view of the sky through its shell and where it was thickest, the ice was the strangest shade of blue. A few gulls slept on its top, stirring in the sun.

There was chatter among those able to sail. Many of them were experienced sea captains but they were used to hauling trade across the warm waters – not battling Winter herself in rough, uncharted seas. Men hung off the front of the ship, searching the horizon for chunks of ice bobbing in the water, lumbering along like bears in the snow. Small ones grazed against the hull constantly, growling as the ships pushed them to the side. The _Ibbenese_ boats were made of local Ironwood that was as dense as steel and withstood the constant bombardment.

Lorath wasn't looking for bergs in the water. His mind was full of stories – of sea creatures made of black stone. Things that lived in the depths that once walked the forests taking humans as lovers and food. For six days he slept on deck, holding lanterns to the water during the depths of night when walls of floating ice towered above Bu Gai's fleet. Some arched right over the ship, dripping onto their decks. Lorath's halo of flame flickered weakly against the white surface. All of these monsters had broken away from the same ice flow.

At night, the web of stars was bright. Bu Gai emerged and laid down, staring at the heavens. His people communed with the stars and read the future in their pearl strings. For them, life was created by a moon crashing into the West where fire spilled into a barren land of ice. Lorath lay beside and tried to listen to his prayers. Instead of gods he saw Bu Gai. Poison left a tremor in his hands hands while the rims of his eyes fluoresced. Lorath reached over and touched one of those tears – inspecting the glowing liquid. He had seen this before, bottled and sold by apothecaries. It came from beaches in the East. Maybe that was the source of the sickness as well, dredged up from the sea to haunt the living.

Lorath gasped as Bu Gai took hold of his wrist.

“No!” He nodded at the tear on Lorath's fingertips.

The ship shuddered past another ice berg. This time part of it ground against the mast and a hail of sheered ice fell over the deck. They sat up, drowned in the false snow. A sailor shouted at the front of the vessel. The berg pushed against the ship again, sending everyone to their knees.

Lorath raced to the rail and hung his lantern over the side. Others appeared beside him – some with flaming torches that cut through the darkness. Another sheet of ice wandered ahead in the darkness. This one was flat, barely lifting a metre out of the water. Crumpled at its edge was a skeletal corpse with one arm dangled over the side, occasionally brushing into the passing waves.

“Death...” Whispered Bu Gai.

“No.” Lorath lifted his lantern higher. The light caught the corpse's empty eye sockets. Bone shone in the moonlight, poking through the shredded remnants of a Night's Watch cloak. The black material was worried by the wind. “Look!”

Its bones curled around the base of a sword. The corpse moved, pulled upwards from the centre of its spine by some unholy force until it stood on the ice, watching the ship hungrily. Bu Gai screamed at the sailors to turn the ship but the winds were soft and the response sluggish. They moved inevitably closer.

Their ship _missed_. It sailed safely by, veering far enough to leave an impasse of water between them. The ship behind was not so fortunate. The berg smashed into the bow where the creature waited. As soon as wood touched ice it clambered up the hull using its fingers as claws – digging them deep. Panic erupted on deck. Warriors were there to meet it with swords but they were flung uselessly across the deck. The rest surged forward, screaming as blades sank into its hollow chest and found nothing to pierce.

Lorath tore himself away from Bu Gai, swiped a torch from one of the sailors and vaulted up the rigging at the back of the ship. He screamed at the vessel trailing them until a few eyes looked out into the darkness. He brandish the flame, waving it back and forth. _Fire_. He howled the word over and over. Someone must have heard him. A lamp was smashed on deck, thrown at the feet of the dead man. It erupted in fury, spreading over the skeleton where the lamp oil soaked right to the bone. The thing let out a screech that transcended the night air and echoed endlessly across the _Shivering Sea_.

“Fire...” Lorath collapsed back against the ropes, watching the flames die. Too soon. Bu Gai crushed his hand in Lorath's shawl and set him back at the rail. The waters were thick with ice. “My Lord...” Lorath reached for the emperor. The roar of flame from the ship behind exposed dozens of corpses stirring on the sea. As the light died, they vanished but they were still there – the dead waiting for the living to join their ranks.

###  **THE SUNSPEAR – DORNE**

Darkstar perched on the bartizan. Its embellishments were woefully eroded while remnants of oillets and figurines were encased in salt. He wrapped his hand around one of them, feeling the outline of breasts beneath his palm. They were all of _Nymeria_ and her endless beauty that lingered in the veil of legend, blinding men to the violence of her conquest. Having seen the silver queen, he wondered if time would eventually veil her fury in stories of her bewitching eyes.

He was not bewitched. She was Aegon, Aenar, Aerys – Baelon, Rhaenys Viserys – Aegor and Visenya. She was every sword melted into the Iron Throne. The graves of those stripped of flesh and turned to ash. She was a firestorm, creeping from the coast. Daenerys Targaryen was all the madness of her father, the wager of a coin and the last hope of _Westeros_.

“I look on her and see hell,” he said to his companion. The Stark child had taken to climbing the walls. He'd found her here, cursed her to leave but the wolf refused.

“I've met worse than her,” Arya replied. “She 'as your sword.”

“Not my sword,” Darkstar tossed another piece of the castle into the sea. “Blood does not entitle us to wield Dawn like a common piece of dragon steel. It is greater than that – a sword with a will of its own. If it has chosen a score with the dragon's ice knight then our house will follow it into battle – into death...”

Arianne's eyes reflected off the water. She was out there, dancing in the waves. He wondered if the souls of the dead passed beneath the surface and became mer-creatures.

Darkstar considered the young girl. “Your father carried our sword, did you know that? No... 'suppose not. It was long before you made an appearance. It's a terrible secret in the realm but we know. Our champion died protecting your Aunt.”

“She died-”

“Yes, she died but that was between Lyanna and the gods. Your father was manipulated into killing our champion but was decent enough to return Dawn. We're all on the same side, Arya. Direct your anger where it'll do some good.” He watched the way she touched her tiny blade. “You have your father's honour and his violence.”

“Why do you care who I kill?” Arya asked. He was a strange, willowy figure – more reptile than man.

“I have nothing else to care for.”

Arya noticed the small statue at his hand. “Nymeria...” she nodded at it. “I named my wolf after her.”

“Fancy yourself a warrior queen? I dare say you fight with more skill than her. She was like the silver queen,” he explained, at the look of disappointment in Arya's eyes, “with a talent for commanding others to fight on her behalf. You, I think, fight your own battles. Thought so. You are more like your Aunt. Lyanna knew what to do with a sword. She gave the prince a fine old scar.”

*~*~*

Jorah picked up his pace, following the queen through unending hallways. She would not be deterred, holding her torch high where its flame pressed backwards, trailing in the air like her blood-red silk. “Daenerys!” His voice was kept low to avoid the attention of the guards which lined the stone in motionless patrol. Dead, like statues. Armour catching the light. Spears dripping.

Daenerys took a corner and pushed through a double set of gilded doors. They slowed her progress enough for him to fall in step and glimpse her face. _No tears._ He was starting to worry that they were gone forever.

“Where is it that you are going?” That's all he wanted to know. Racing through a vast palace so soon after a war was dangerous. “The graves of Yronwood are warm. Your Grace, it is unwise to rush the hallways like-”

When the doors swung shut, Daenerys stopped. “I am _not_ ,” she turned in a hiss, “entering into any more promises of marriage!”

“I did not suggest anything of the sort,” he defended. “Varys was only trying to-”

She held her hand up to silence him. “ _No_ and you can tell him that. Ever since I was born men have been trying to barter me off at a price – as if my crown is a condition of some other man's ambition. _It is not._ I will _take_ my throne as Aegon did.” Her eyes were agleam with a ferocity that scared Jorah enough to hold him in silent awe. “With three dragons and my _own name._ ”

Jorah could do nothing but dip his head and acquiesce.

“Varys,” Jorah added, when he felt it safe, “acts only to aid your cause. Tell me then, what it is that you wish him to arrange and it will be so, Your Grace.”

For a moment her father looked through her eyes. He rose from within, riding the tides of fury, intrinsically bound to her soul.

“I want to know if we have friends in King's Landing. I want to _meet_ those friends before marching on the city. Have Varys arrange it, if he feels the need to be useful.” Her knight nodded obediently. Daenerys softened. Jorah had doing nothing to offend her yet was left to weather her temper. “And find out what is happening in the North. No – do not ask Varys,” she quickly added. Daenerys took his arm and drew him close while her voice became a whisper. “I ask this of _you_ and no one else.”

Jorah's heart sank. He'd die for her this instant if she asked and yet he could not do this thing for her. “My family, _Khaleesi_ ,” he lowered his voice further, “they have not spoken to me since I left Bear Island.”

Her hand shifted to his face, brushing across the bristle of his beard. She held him steady – stilling him with nothing but her eyes. “They _will_ answer your letters, Ser Jorah Mormont because they are sent at my request.”

“I will try...” he replied. “Can I ask why you do this?”

“I do not know what Varys wants,” Daenerys moved closer. “Which means I have no idea what he'd sacrifice to have it.” _If he'd sacrifice her_. “For all his smiles and careful whispers I will never forget that he was on my father's council. How do I know that the king's madness was not deepened by murmurs in his ear? And how do I know, Ser Jorah, that those whispers weren't from his tongue?”

By all the old gods, Jorah prayed that she was wrong. “Where were you going in such a hurry? It was not to make this request of me.”

“No. It was not.” She sighed and moved from his reach. “I will ride Drogon tonight.”

“So soon after battle – is that wise?”

His protests came fast but she was ready. “If I am to enter King's Landing on the back of a dragon, I need to have more control of the beast between my thighs. You saw what happened in the city today. Drogon nearly burned it to the ground. He _killed_ a dozen of my own men and tore them apart like scraps of meat. He is not fit for war and neither am I. As a lord learns the dance of a sword – I must learn the dance of dragons.”

“You can not ride all three of them, Daenerys...”

“I have thought of that too. Ser,” and here she paused, seeing her knight afresh. “I heard what transpired in the city today. Half the men saw.” He averted his gaze. Daenerys could not decide if it was in guilt or embarrassment. “Why do you hide? Viserion came to _you_. Forgive me but is that not how the Targaryen riders describe their bond?”

“Khaleesi I am _not_ a Targaryen. I've no right to-”

“Ride a dragon?” A smile spread across her lips. “This you have already dared and _lived_. Tyrion tells me, Viserion would have killed you in an instant if he did not wish you to ride him. When we move on King's Landing, I _need_ you by my side – wing to wing. Do you understand?”

He understood but could not speak. Jorah dipped to one knee, lowering his head in a bow. He felt the light weight of her pale hand on his shoulder and for several minutes he could not find the words to accept.

*~*~*

Daenerys rode out alone that night. She mounted _Drogon_ on the sand and held fast to the leather harness as he rumbled down the wet sand at the tide line. He lifted off the ground and began lazy laps of the bay, moving up and down in the geothermal currents along with a pair of surprised sea eagles.

As they rose even higher, Daenerys spied the pirate fleet making its way around _Dorne_. She feared for Varys' plan. The opportunity for failure was as vast as the sea itself and yet the rewards of success were sweet enough to temp everyone. Daario – Euron... The man at the heart of it was fierce enough to try.

Without meaning to, she commanded _Drogon_ to fly towards the fleet. He tilted to the side, dipping his enormous wing into the wind in an elegant curve that brought him parallel to the water. They gained on the ships until he pulled beside the lead.

Daario waited on deck with his arms braced on the rail. He'd been watching the dragon for hours. _Drogon_ was much larger than _Viserion_ and nowhere near as beautiful in his eyes. Losing the queen to her destiny was difficult but he had come to terms with their fate long ago. Leaving his dragon at _Dorne_ was far more to bear. Even the pirates who had cursed the constant peril of their loitering shadow in the sky were ill at ease. _Viserion_ had been their strength. Their sigil.

He could not stand to look any longer and headed below deck into the arms of the _Bloodstone._

*~*~*

Quaithe was drawn toward the pyres. The twisting beasts of fire grew as high as the _Sunspear's_ walls, fed by the deluge of war. She'd seen them in her dreams. The same flames. The same city half-ruined in the dark. Its bells silenced with a prince who grew cold in the crypts while the great wheel turned. Quentyn stood between the bodies of his sister and father, weeping in the dark.

A firm arm dragged her into the light.

“It is not permitted,” Black Scale said, hauling the witch away from the beach where she'd lingered in the shadows. What creature came from the sea at such an hour?

Quaithe's golden mask rustled. “The Bear knight,” her voice rasped. “I have a message for his ears.”

“Ser Jorah Mormont?”

She nodded. “I have travelled from the far East to see him this night.”

“He is by the pyres,” Black Scale replied. When she moved toward them, the soldier held her back with a rough grip. “I am wary of witches...” he warned. “As a boy I listened to them curse our kind while they were lined along the city wall. Their heads were taken and their bodies thrown into Slaver's Bay where the gulls feasted for days. The masters had no place for their magic. Neither did we. It was the only thing we agreed on.”

“Commander, I am no witch.”

They found Jorah blushing pink from the heat. He was looking into the depths of fire, searching as the Red Priests did for answers that were not there. He stirred when the pair approached.

His black cape caught in the ocean wind and wrapped around his body. Inside it was lined with red silk. A gift from the new Prince of Dorne. They had a love of theatre and firmly believed that an enemy could be conquered by the sight of an army. Well, Quaithe conquered Jorah with the slightest shimmer of gold from her mask. He knew what she was.

“Forgive me,” Jorah began, when Black Scale brought her forward, “I did not believe fate would bring us here again.”

“Since when is Jorah the Andal at the whim of Fate's lips?” Quaithe replied, slithering from Black Scale's hold. She was like the shadows on the beach. “Or do your dreams blind your eyes?”

“You may leave,” Jorah nodded at Black Scale. When they were alone, Jorah continued. “They are not dreams, as you well know. A man should not know such things.”

Boldly, Quaithe took his arm and pulled it into the light. The text in his skin rose to the surface, darker than before, called by her touch. “When are you going to learn? There is no 'should' or 'should not' – only what is. If you wish to survive the wars to come you will need to set your damn honour aside. Victory is a mess. To be queen, Daenerys will have to do a lot worse than picking sides in someone else's war.” She released her hold on Jorah. The blood magic seethed around beneath his skin, trapped. The world blurred with it. Her hand slapped over his cheek. “Pain binds you to truth and to _her_.”

“Why have you returned? It was not to lecture me on the will of the gods. If you'd wanted to join the Queen's cause you'd have ridden with us from Asshai.”

“I thought...” Quaithe sighed with the breeze. “Wisdom rarely comes with age,” she said instead, “and in my years I have learned never to be surprised by how often we are wrong. In Asshai I planned to head East, to find the last of the last Valyrians living within the walls of Old Volantis. Instead of the past I found the future. My path led to this beach and in the walking of it I gathered information that may be of use” The fires disturbed her peace. Even after so many years she could feel the anger of the flames against her face, peeling the layers of flesh. She begged him back into the shadow of the sea, if only to watch the remaining pair of dragons swim. “Sometimes I look at them,” she whispered, “and I cannot believe that they are real. I called to them so many times but could not wake them.”

“Real enough, I assure you,” Jorah replied. “Do you expect the Valyrians in Old Volantis will ally with the queen? They have remained silent through the wars of Westeros. They show no interest in the world beyond their black walls.” Jorah stepped closer to the sorceress. Her lies shone through the slits of her mask. “You do not seek their council at all. What else is buried behind those walls?”

“The Temple of the Lord of Light,” she whispered. “Dragons have increased the power of their followers – are you not curious about the temple itself?”

“A wise man once told me not to place my faith in the whispers of magic. This other information...”

“Relates to a relic recovered by Daario in the ruins of Yin. He stole if from Bu Gai's treasure room and carried it across the oceans. He has a black gem stone that has been in the emperor's family for generations – before time was time, as they say.” Quaithe eyed the sword sitting on Jorah's hip. She has seen its glorious hilt once before, sliding through the air as a battle raged. There was nothing in the world like the milkglass sword. “May I see?”

He agreed, drawing out _Dawn_. The metal sang as it was removed from its sheath. Jorah laid it flat across his palms. Her bony finger tapped the empty claws where the Bloodstone belonged.

“Here...” she whispered. “This is where the stone belongs. Before the war begins it must be returned.”

Jorah frowned, shifting uneasily. There was no doubt that the sword was missing one of its jewels. He put it away, not liking the shine in Quaithe's eyes. The pirate fleet had vanished from their horizon several hours ago. “I do not understand, why not ask Daario to present the missing stone to the queen? You have let him leave and now he is more than like to die on Varys' quest.” He meditated on that. “I'd say definite that he die before that task is done.”

“Ser, the stone is more dangerous than you know,” she breathed. “Better it be kept from the queen until the end. It is poison. And – and it is unlikely to be lost. It has a way about it.”

Jorah's eyes were like steel. “We will have this conversation again if I have to fish it out of the Shivering Sea.”

Quaithe retreated, ever shifting away from the light. This place had the stink of death. The air was full of human ash and the sands clogged with bone. Jorah followed. He did not understand Quaithe. There were times when she saved their lives and others when she was content to watch the swords fall across their necks. “I'll ask you again, princess... Why have you returned to the Queen?”

She was silent for a long time before finally murmuring the truth. “Because I dream... Such _horrors..._ I need to know if any of them are true before I leave.”

*~*~*

“I thought you would be drinking...” Varys announced his presence, lingering by the door.

Tyrion sat in front of the window with an untouched bottle of wine balanced on the sill, illuminated by the moon. They had not spoken since their argument. Both of them had bruises darkening and smears of blood left to dry. He had the stink of the sea and Varys – of ink.

“I am surrounded by dangerous people,” Tyrion replied.

Varys fought a smirk, inching into the room. “You always drink when surrounded by dangerous people. Your sister tried to have you killed from the first moments of your birth. Tywin stood on the shores of Casterly Rock intent on sending you beneath the waves. You've had a brush with the Moon Door, tasted the front lines of battle more than once. Lived with a bear...” The list went on.

“I don't care for it tonight.” Tyrion sounded lost. He was searching something beyond the window that refused to form. “Why did you do it?” He finally asked.

Varys closed the door and moved to lean against the wall beside the window. He kept to the shadows. “Because, in the grand game, some things are necessary – undesirable as we might find them. The Faceless Men were an available solution to a complex problem. The rest, I accept, is a consequence I have already apologised for.” He flinched at the hollowness of his words.

“It was more than that, Varys. You have employed the services of an order that work directly against your ultimate goal. No amount of silver will make those men forget that dragons were their masters. Gods – there are scrolls in Old Town that say they caused the Doom itself.”

“ _That_ ,” Varys assured, “is a fantasy.”

Tyrion's eyes were pits of the abyss. Betrayal. Loss. Uncertainty. The ground he thought solid was found to be made of sand. He did not know how to proceed. “I am curious whose name you've paid for. A king? A man who would be king? Some lowly merchant that holds a key? There is no telling how the mind of a spider works. If the name was mine...”

Varys held up his hand. “No. The name was _not_ yours. That much I can say. We have known each other a long time, old friend. That is what you are, Tyrion. A friend – I hope. That has not changed. You are trying to decide whether or not to tell the queen. Let me say this. If you tell Daenerys, she will kill me – violence is in her blood. _Think_ Tyrion. The last time she suspected a Faceless assassin in her ranks she drowned a ship of loyal followers.”

“The queen's rage is swift,” Tyrion agreed, finally looking at Varys. “It would cut as both down if she learned the truth so I am forced to trust you.” The imp felt himself deflating. A war with Varys was impossible. “For the sake of the gods, man – _sit_.” He did. “Your head?”

“It's not the worst knock it's had,” Varys replied. “This is the beginning, Tyrion. The queen has refused to align herself in marriage to _any_ house in Westeros. She is determined to take the realm on the back of a dragon. It is madness. She does not have the stomach for a repeat of the great conquest. That amount of blood requires something quite extraordinary.”

“You are a very clever man, Varys – possibly one of the most intelligent men ever born and yet you cannot see what is clear. The moment that girl walked into a fire with three dragon eggs her future was writ. She will take Westeros with the sword. She will burn King's Landing to the ground. We are the ones who don't have the stomach for it. Who did you offer her in marriage?”

“The Tyrell prince – Loras.”

Tyrion chuckled to himself.

“Why do you mock? It makes perfect sense. A natural friend with power and wealth.”

“The queen prefers large warriors. A flower does not tempt a fire.”

“Well, she cannot wed a knight or a pirate, that much is clear.”

“Really?”

Varys laid against the stone. “We leave tomorrow with the Martell army. You and I must decide if we are to sail or ride into King's Landing.”

“I'm middling on a horse,” Tyrion lamented, “and you are worse.”

“The sea it is.”

*~*~*

_Drogon_ shook the water from his scales. The Queen slid down his wing and landed on the wet sand where two figures waited. It was near dawn. The fires were finished. Their putrid smoke receded over the water.

“Quaithe?” Daenerys approached. Ser Jorah stood with her. “I heard you sailed with Daario. We thank you for the relics of Old Valyria.”

“My queen,” Quaithe knelt in the sand. She remained on her knees, staring from the slits in her mask.

“What is it?” Daenerys tried to make her stand but Quaithe refused.

“I had to be sure,” she whispered, tears slipping over the metal. “I thought – if I were to look at you, I would know.”

“Know _what_?”

“Daario has seen things in the mists of Old Valyria. He shared them with me and for a while I did not believe. Then I saw...” Quaithe's gaze flicked between the sword on Jorah's hip and Daenery's breast. That pale steel had been in the heart of another queen. “If I had known these dreams before Asshai, I would not have performed the ritual. I fear I may have caused irreparable harm.”

“You make no sense...”

Jorah fished Quaithe from the sand on the queen's command and held her steady. She shook beneath his hold – terrified. “We should take her inside, Your Grace. She is unwell.” As he went to move her, Quaithe collapsed backwards into his arms.

###  **THE IRON ISLANDS – WESTEROS**

The throne of the Iron Born was a woeful thing. Cast from the sea and left on the shore, it brought all the wrack of the depths into the light. Plucked from a towering city in the jungles of _Ulthos_ , the throne was tossed into the sea by a cataclysm and left to wander the sand beneath the waves for an age. Empires rose and fell while it drifted across the world until finally, in the freezing waters of the North, a wave pushed it onto the rocks. The stench of death endured. Magic, once killed, lingered in the stone's flesh.

Victarion Greyjoy curled his hands over its smooth surface in admiration. Its filth complimented his poisoned dreams which grew darker by the day. Through the crack in the rock he could see the harbour where a new fleet assembled. Partial hulls were laid out on the beach, swarmed over by workers. The frozen forests of nearby shores were torn down and turned into masts and planks. Women lined the hills spinning canvas sales and the priests of the Drowned God wandered the edge of the water, hissing prayers at the sea.

“Your niece and nephew have taken port in Volantis,” said the messenger, scraping a piece of drift wood he used to steady his feet. “Hard to hide a fleet. There's talk of them heading to Dorne to chase after the Targaryen queen.”

Victarion was amused by this. He thrust out of his chair and roamed over to the fire. Remnants of scrolls lay around the edge of the flames like a nest. All the world was alive with ravens but aside from a squabble in the North, the swords were yet to fall.

“I forgot,” he drawled, casting his eye around the room, “how _small_ these islands are. How did my brother live out his days in this room? You cannot conquer the world from a throne.” Victarion led the messenger out onto the fragile bridge that linked the Pyke to its neighbouring stack. The rope bridge croaked, swinging in the light wind. “Can you see it, out there beyond the waves?”

The old man leaned as far as he dare. He saw nothing but water and a few lazy clouds.

“Of course not. The world expects me to sail South and lay waste to the King's Landing.” He shook his head. “The capital is _fucked_. Only a mad man would waste his fleet in that row. No, we'll head south – to _Lannisport_. If – and that is a wager I'd not take – the Lannister empire survives, we'll hold their heart in our fucking claws. We can control the realm from here and if the Targaryen wins, we still have the gold and possession of the greatest fort in the land.”

“We are sailing on Casterly Rock?”

“Before the week is out.”

###  **VOLANTIS - ESSOS**

“You heard...” Theon leaned closer to his sister's ear. It was difficult to get a word in as she writhed against one of the brightly coloured whores. The place crawled with them, like crabs chasing the tide. Sometimes Theon wondered if she did this to torment him. He felt a ghost of fire where his cock ought to have been but a swig of ale chased it off and he was left with a sickening air of smoke and perfume. “Mantarys fell a few weeks ago. The city's still burning. Dothraki, they say.”

“Jogos Nai, brother,” she corrected.

“Horselords – what difference does it make? They sacked the city and hung entrails from the walls. Savages.” He tried to impress upon Asha the urgency of the situation but she was more interested in the woman on her lap. “Mantarys is about two week's fair weather from Volantis. We need to leave before they get here. Asha? _Asha_...”

“It makes a great deal of difference,” Asha finally replied, breaking only to pour another glass. “Do you really think that we've set up in this tavern for indulgence's sake? I am not a man. _You can go_.” Asha paid the woman and watched her saunter off to another client. “The girls speak of little else. Look around, brother. This place is full of merchants and nobles who've escaped the violence. They've been telling stories of an army led by Pol Qo himself – he is an Eastern King.”

“So?”

“So... they also say that he has partnered with Daenerys Targaryen. These savages fly dragon banners. He is an extension of her army with orders to sail to Westeros.”

“Come on...” Theon turned to his drink. “Her army is made of slaves from Yunkai and Dothraki tribes taken from her husband. Where would she meet let alone secure an alliance like that?”

“Nobody knows but we're going to join them.” She snatched Theon's glass away. “You've had too much of that tonight. I paid the seamstresses to make banners of our own. When they are ready we will sail East to meet them before they reach Volantis.”

“The Targaryen queen is in Dorne, _that_ is where we should be sailing.”

“Like all men, you know nothing about women. This fleet of savages will need us to navigate the Sunset Sea. If we deliver her army safely to Westeros then she'll be inclined to return the favour.”

“I hope you're right,” Theon whispered. “Or they'll be painting their sails red with our blood.”

“Red is a good colour, little brother.”

 


	72. Vivify

 

###  **THE SUNSPEAR – DORNE**

The jetty ended in crystal water. All the horrors of yesterday had washed away leaving perfection etched across the shores of _Dorne_. Daenerys' fleet scattered over the horizon – sails billowing – the desert sun baking their wooden decks hard.

She waited at the end where planks gave way to water, inhaling the sweet air while admiring the ancient city. It had risen from calamity and glittered as though it were made from shards of the sun. To her left, the last vessel bobbed calmly against the dock. Its sailors untied lines of rope, dropping sails from towering masts while their captain bellowed his logs out to the men. Varys was aboard stuffing unhappy ravens into dozens of cages leaving a constant veil of black feathers in the air. One of them caught in Daenerys' hair. She picked it free, twisting it between her fingers until the quill snapped.

Tyrion ambled toward her; the last to arrive. He stepped carefully around the places where _Drogon's_ wrath had burned away the pylons, keeping a bottle of wine safe against his chest. Tyrion held it up to the queen as he approached.

“Nearly forgot this,” he grinned, cradling it protectively. “I have it on good authority that this is the only gift Varys has ever bestowed. Naturally I treasure it.”

“Wise...” The Queen drawled, with an uncommon air of diversion. “As you face a long voyage alone in his company. Now,” she invited Tyrion to turn away from the ship so that their voices might be carried into nowhere, “you understand that these ships will arrive in King's Landing ahead of the army? The passage overland will not be easy for us. I am trusting _you_ to see that Varys keeps to his word while I am gone. There is a great deal to be done.”

“Do not agonise, Your Grace,” Tyrion insisted. “We will do all that you have asked.” He bid her farewell, dipping to his knee before he moved in the direction of the plank stretching up to the ship. Daenerys stepped across his path in a sudden wall of silver. Her tiny hand pressed against the wine.

“I am not insensitive to the death of your niece.”

Tyrion's throat tightened. _How long had she been waiting to bring up Myrcella?_

“It cannot have been easy being here in Dorne or facing Ellaria's snakes. I am sure my spies whisper the same suspicions as yours.”

He swallowed a ball of despair before replying, “I find it difficult to support a crown that murders young girls over their blood but then I remind myself that every house in the kingdom is guilty of this crime. I would be left stateless.” And who was he to judge? He was a murderer himself. “Yes – you are correct, I admit to meditating on poor Myrcella for a good long while last night. Mostly when I look at the sea. She died on the waves dreaming of home and _love_ as all young people do. She never had a chance to be poisoned by the world.”

Tyrion recalled that feeling vividly. The joy of first love. His had lasted barley a day before being dashed across the floor of a whorehouse.

“The last thing she wrote was a letter to Cersei full of affection for Dorne and its people. I do not believe she wished to see them turned to ash for the crime of one angry consort. In a way, Myrcella's death is _my_ fault. Oberyn died for _my_ life. Myrcella in payment for his. Things would have been simpler if I had held the sword myself.”

His guilt, while misplaced, was useful so Daenerys let him keep it. “I was inside the tent when my brother died,” she shared instead. “My hands never touched the gold which boiled his head nor did I suggest the punishment. Still... it was within my power to save his life.”

“And you chose not to.”

“I watched...” There were nights that his questioning eyes visited her. “I had known since we were children that Viserys had to die. When he did, he died full of anger and lies – jealousy and madness. He'd have made a terrible king.”

Tyrion rolled the smooth bottle within his hands. The queen's tone and absent look unsettled him. At times he sensed madness in her but then, on days like these, she was as serene as the sweeping sands around Dorne, unmoveable against the ocean tide. “I'm not sure I-”

“The choice was made before that moment. To succeed I had to eliminate the last of my family, cold as that may sound. You face a similar horror on the other side of that sea. Tyrion...”

“Yes, Your Grace?” His voice wavered.

“Are _you_ ready for what awaits?”

“I try to be,” he replied. “I _must_ be.”

“You and I are very different creatures. Passion drove you to murder your father. You will need to find it again.”

Daenerys held his gaze for a long time before she allowed him to pass then lingered on the dock until Jorah finished with the men and joined her. Together, they watched the boats clear the reef before turning their backs on the sea.

“Come, Your Grace,” Jorah offered his arm so that they could begin their walk down the jetty. “Everything is ready for our immediate departure.”

“What will Varys do,” she asked, “if he sees Tyrion falter?”

Jorah dropped his eyes to the cracked planks of wood beneath their feet. “Kill him, I imagine. He has come too far on this path to risk defeat. You already know this or you would never have let him get on that boat.”

“He has an insatiable lust to see his sister murdered – that drives him forward. His brother is too far North to be caught up in the conflict but the King? His young nephew?” Daenerys shook her head. “It's not in him to kill the boy.”

“Is it necessary – to kill him? King Tommen is very young.”

“I was younger than he, Ser Jorah, when I was cast out into the world. Robert Baratheon was right to want me dead. You and Varys saved me, now the kingdom will burn.”

Jorah was patient with her murderous words. “Saving you has given the kingdom a chance to survive. Letting him live might promise it a future.”

Daenerys' eyes shone like his ice sword. “Varys will make a promise on the boy's life. Then I will command that he break it.” They made it to the stone steps, ascending until a platform of marble greeted the sun. There was a thick black streak running through it like a crack of lightning in reverse. “I have not been able to stop thinking about what you said,” she added, “about Varys. _Dismantling the empire and setting me on the throne are two very different desires – indiscernible from one another._ When King's Landing falls the question of which outcome Varys yearns for will be asked again.”

Jorah cupped his hands under her elbows, dragging her toward him until they were facing each other with the sea behind. He searched her eyes, finding cracks in her confidence. She has always been so blindingly certain of their future but the closer she grew to the Crown, the darker her shadows became.

“Listen to me, Khaleesi. If Varys considerings betraying you for even a moment he will find himself lashed to the walls of the Red Keep for all the kingdom to see. I made him that promise long ago.”

Her hands slipped forward to his chest. He was wearing his steel breastplate with a pair of dancing bears beneath her hands. Many times he'd offered to change it to a set of dragons but she refused. Every time her life hung in the balance she'd seen those silver bears pulling her back from the abyss. “You should not threaten our friends so openly.”

“I said it with my eyes...” He promised.

*~*~*

Tyrion folded himself into a narrow cabin below deck. He had spent so many days of his life on the sea that the gentle rocking beneath his feet was beginning to feel like home. Having _no home_ was almost a comfort. If you had nothing then there was nothing to fear losing. Tyrion stopped, resting his hand on the table in a moment of clarity.

_He has nothing._

What a terrible revelation...

“You look paler than usual,” Varys intruded, poking his head through the door. “Something the queen said?”

“It had more to do with what was implied.” Tyrion wondered if it would be in poor taste to drink Varys' wine so early on the voyage.

Varys rustled up a leaf of genuine pity for the other man. He dragged his hand gently down the door, stepped into the room and closed it behind him for privacy. “I already promised you to do what I can for the boy. Until we arrive in King's Landing, I cannot accurately judge the state of affairs. The mess changes day to day.”

“Daenerys already suspects us of imaging a plot. The queen will know if we succeed and not only will she hunt the boy down and kill him – she'll hunt us as well. The only way to save Tommen is by convincing the queen to let him live. Betraying her on this front is a mistake. The Lannisters cannot rule if the world is to survive but that does not need to include wiping the name from existence.”

“Well, dear friend, I hope you have a plan, plenty of ravens and some ink for this mission of yours. Meanwhile, I have letters of my own to send to our new friends in King's Landing while the sailing is fair. Lady Olenna Tyrell is most keen to be free of her golden shackles. Oh – I thought you might want to know, one of those damn dragons is following us. The green one. I think you fed it too much on the way over and now it is somewhat attached.”

“Rhaegal?” Tyrion pushed past Varys and clambered on deck, lifting his head to the sun where he found the beautiful creature cruising beside them. “You foolish dragon... Go home to your mother!”

“As you see,” Varys joined him. “He will rather spoil the surprise of our arrival so I have instructed the captain to take a wider approach, remain behind the curve of water.”

Varys remained on deck, strolling in endless circles. He'd always been a 'walker'. It served him well in the Capital. Moving things were harder to assassinate and while more eyes observed a wandering man, each set saw too little to make anything of it. On a ship there was no escaping those watchful eyes. The _Unsullied_ preferred to stare endlessly at the water. He wondered if their minds retreated to their years of torture. They were not the unthinking, uncaring monsters of stories – they were men, all of them and the freedom Daenerys offered brought the unexpected burden of _emotion_.

He wished he could drown himself in the waves like they did but Varys was a haunted man. A long time ago he had lost count of the bodies put in the ground under his name. Their corpses blurred. Dozens. A hundred? Who could say when his knife was subtle, slaughtering indirectly through suggestion. Except for one. There was nothing indirect about Illyrio. It was his eyes that he saw in the water. The unmistakable reflection of betrayal.

“ _Be at peace, my friend.”_ He whispered at the waves. They rose in a salty-froth, biting at the hull. _“Or I will dash your soul on the rocks.”_

*~*~*

The queen's pale mare bucked at the sweeping twists of sand chasing each other across the desert. They lived and died in the wasteland beside as the army pushed towards the mountains. She recognised the lay of the land from above but at the ground progress was a crawl which frustrated her.

Her beast was flanked by Jorah's speckled stallion and the Dayne's Dornish mountain horse that was two hands taller than any other. Slighter in build with narrow legs, the creature skipped over the sand, rustling its blonde mane. Two of her dragons circled ahead, casing the mountain cliffs for a perch to nest. There was nothing she could do about _Rhaegal._ He was a wilful dragon with a mind of his own.

The _Dothraki_ were comfortable in their saddles, finally rid of the iron horses. This land reminded them of home but Daenerys wondered how they'd fare when weather turned and the snows began. They'd have a taste of it, crossing into the _Stormlands_. For now, they searched for the great desert river and when they found its strip of sapphire in the ochre dunes, they stopped the horses and let them drink while the men pitched camp.

“How many days of this?” asked Daenerys, standing beside her beast while it dipped its head into the water. She ran her hands over its coat, brushing away a layer of dust. With the Dornish men added to her numbers, her army was vast even without the bulk of _Unsullied_.

“A week,” Ser Jorah replied, dismounting, “until we are through the Prince's Pass and onto the Dornish Marches. Avoiding Yronwood adds a few days to our journey but a fight there after so much blood is of no use to anyone. House Blackmont has shifted allegiance to the Martell banner, abandoning Yronwood now their lord is dead. They write to offer men and board on our way through the great gates.”

“No,” Daenerys turned to lay against her horse. She liked the feel of its heart beating against her skin. It reminded her of the sun and stars... The wolf girl appeared at the edge of the water, kneeling at the back to wash. Always alone.

“That will offend them,” he warned. “It is customary after a battle.”

“I might agree with you if I wished to conquer Dorne but taking their men would carve a gash through the Martell army. Ask them to publicly support my claim and send them one of the smaller chests of jewels as a token of our gratitude. We will declare them friends and allies and forget all that went before. Distant bonds of peace are easier to maintain if they are bought. The other minor houses will hear of our new friendship and pledge men. _Those_ we will accept. We grow our number without the risk of hostility. Why are you smiling, ser?”

“You are as wise as Twyin, ruthless as Aegon and beautiful as the Summer wind. The kingdom does not stand a chance.”

There was a gentle breath between them. “Or,” she countered, “I have foolishly turned away a generous offering from a new ally.”

Except the queen _was_ right. By the time their convoy touched the flanks of the ranges, soldiers from the nearby villages flooded in. The Dornish were eager for a war with a kingdom that had tried to tear them apart for nearly a thousand years.

“Why did you bring the Stark?” Daenerys asked, finding her attention drawn to the child. There was more darkness woven through her soul than any of the warlords riding beside. “Surely the ships would have been safer if you intend to return her to the North unharmed.”

Jorah did not like to talk about Arya. “She asked to go with the fleets,” he admitted, to the queen's confusion. “Arya has never displayed an interest in _anything_. It worried me. This way I can keep an eye on her.”

“You are worried about what she might do.”

“To Tyrion, mostly. He is uncle to the king that killed her father and an unwanted husband to her sister. Who knows what she'd do left alone on a ship with him. There are the gates,” Jorah brought his horse beside the queen. The scrap of road narrowed ahead between two chalk cliff faces. They towered high with an impasse of rock either side for as far as they could see. A Blackmont guard manned the fort and accompanying tower behind a set of Valyrian steel gates which stood at nearly fifty feet. It was obvious they had been ripped from a forgotten palace and forged into the rock then melted with dragon fire. Flying from the castle window was a snarling red Targaryen banner. It was old, made in the rule of her ancestors. To see it now, given life...

The Blackmont men lined beside the gate and bowed to the silver queen. They searched the sky but could not see her dragons. Instead their cries echoed through the cliffs like ghosts howling.

The gates opened and the path North was clear.

*~*~*

“We're too late...” Sam cursed the towering city. He'd dreamed of _The Sunspear_ for so long but now all he felt was a sinking pit of disappointment when he watched the light play on its beautiful curves. “Nearly a week, according to the rice merchant. We'll never catch up with an army overland.”

“We could follow her fleet,” Gilly struggled to keep Little Sam in her arms. He was big enough to wander around and wanted to be out in the world. “It is no secret where they are headed.”

“And meet them in the middle of a firestorm? We have to find the queen _before_ the fighting starts.”

Marwyn laid a map over the deck. They sank to the floor together while the infant incessantly grabbed onto the edges of the parchment. “There's somewhere else we know the queen will go before King's Landing.” he pointed to _Summerhall_. “We take another boat to Wyl, there's a man leaving tomorrow with some leather and then follow the Boneway all the way to Summerhall. He says he has made the trip himself many times. There are demons in those walls the queen must face.”

“More boats...” Sam groaned in dismay.

“From there we are on foot,” Marwyn assured him. “Granted, the Stormlands are a bit of a mess without the Baratheons but I dare say a Targaryen army on the road might quiet things down a bit.”

“Quiet things down?” Sam eyed Marwyn as though the Targaryen madness had swept across his eyes. “The Baratheons killed the Targaryens what makes you think they'll let them march through their home lands?”

“Dragons, my dear Sam. _Dragons_. You wait and see how fast old ills are forgot when the skies fill with wings and flame. Aegon taught the realm fear. It sank so deep into their bones that children are born with their eyes fixed East, waiting for their return. Daenerys will work her way from the South and none of the Seven Gods can stop her.”

*~*~*

Sam walked the walls of _The Sunspear_ until he found the forgotten stairs carved directly into the rock. He sat down, gripping the dust as he descended. The drop gripped his heart. Ocean wind ripped at his tattered cloak – sending it out beside him like the torn wings of a dragon. A third of the way down the rock wall he found the skeletal remains of a _Weirwood_. Dead – old and weathered by the storm, it had woven its roots through the foundations of the Dornish city.

“ _Night gathers...”_ Sam whispered to the broken thing. _“And now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death.”_ He remembered the vows he had broken. The world had meant nothing to Sam until he'd knelt in the snow and given himself over to the Night's Watch. He thought of his brothers at _The Wall_ , standing against the bitter cold, night after night. _“I will stand there again_ ,” he promised the pale wood. _“Sometimes you have to travel South to return North. I made other vows – vows to Gilly and Little Sam – to keep them safe but Marwyn is right. There is no safety except at the edge of danger. Jon used to say that the Weirwoods listened to every prayer – all I pray is that he is right if not, all us poor wretches are howling at the darkness.”_

Its bones rattled in the wind. Another dead thing caught between the desert and the raging sea.

###  **WINTERFELL – THE NORTH**

Sansa stood in her father's tomb for hours. The drip of ice formed tiny rivers between the flat tiles while thick strands of flowering moss tumbled from the ceiling creating a wet curtain. Perfect droplets of water caught in the leaves. They scattered her torchlight like stars until inevitability froze them into pearls of ice. Every now and then they fell as tears, shattering on the stone.

Her father's statue was surrounded by rubble and white powder. His dead eyes watched over the darkness. Sansa wondered if the day might set when she'd spent longer with her hands fixed on the cold stone of his grave than in his living arms. Her fathers face slipped into dream. His voice – a vanishing whisper. Soon she'd forget his scent and all that was Eddard Stark would pass into shadow like the rest of the stone kings beneath _Winterfell_.

“ _I know what you would do...”_ she whispered. _“Lord Baelish was no friend to you. I have heard the stories. I know all his betrayals. The secrets he shared with my mother. The suspicions you never thought to have.”_ Her gloved fingers scraped the lid of his tomb. It was cold and unyielding. Sansa did not speak to her father but to herself. _“I have been handed a victory without the burden of a dangerous man and yet... And yet...”_

The _yet_ caught in her throat like a Winter chill. And yet Petyr was a man of faults with a heart like any other. Could she punish his loyalty with betrayal? Did allowing this trade make her weak or strong? There were no answers in the crypt. _“Part of me wonders whether it is wise to make an enemy of Petyr.”_

She envisioned another set of eyes staring out from the stone. Lord Baelish and his sweeping cloak left to rot in the _Eyrie_. For all their faults the Lords of the Vale were not murderers. There would be a trial. A public display made of his crimes. They'd take pleasure in dredging every detail of his malice without a murmur of his goodness _and there was goodness in him_. She had witnessed it ripple to the surface. At the close, death was inevitable. The Mockingbird would feel wind beneath his wings before the fall.

Sansa felt it already.

An empty tomb and a broken bird.

*~*~*

“Ser?” Sansa sought out her dog-knight when the ruined halls of _Winterfell_ fell quiet. She found him sleeping by a crack in the wall, seated with one eye on the snows outside. It was near dawn. The moon had vanished behind the mountains while the fogs were at their thickest. He stirred into life as her lantern neared. “You asked me when you arrived what you could do to serve.”

Sandor blinked soot from his eyes. His little bird was a Queen of Winter with her pearl dress and wolf fur dragging on the floor. She was harsh, like the ice creeping across the stone. How fortunate Joffrey never lived to see her made _woman_. “Aye, m'lady.”

“Ride to the Eyrie. Offer Lord Baelish your sword in a trial by combat. Bring him back here, alive. You are to be my Queensguard, Ser Clegane.”

“Tha' will anger the Lords of the Vale,” he cautioned, shifting against the rock. He possessed none of the pretence of the other knights.

“A man like Lord Baelish is wasted on the rocks. If you do this, he will be without power and indebted to me.”

“He'll be wounded an' dangerous. I seen him in King's Landin' when the world threatened to fold around him. Your father's death was his solution.”

“Lord Baelish will not kill me. I have my mother's eyes.”

 _That she did._ A dead woman peering through living flesh. Sandor wondered if that would finally drive the mockingbird over the edge.

*~*~*

A pair of horses ploughed through the fog leaving the white air swirling.

“What do you think that was about?” asked Jaime, pouring steaming water into a pair of cups. The bitter pine tea was odd at first but lately he found comfort in it. Every night he spent in _Winterfell_ he felt a part of his old life falling away, shedding like scales from a fish before filleting.

“Lady Stark wishes to retrieve Lord Baelish.”

“And you disapprove...” he observed carefully. The frost on his beard flaked away as he lifted his cup to his lips.

“You don't?” Brienne scoffed. They sat side by side on the roof of the partially collapsed turret. It was open to the snow and subject to a significant slant but on mornings like this, with the sun about to inch into the world, there was a special moment of peace that both of them craved. Somewhere in the forest, the last wolf howl died.

“Lady Stark is not the first person to do something inexplicable for love.”

“That has little to do with your interest. You _want_ Lord Baelish back in Winterfell.”

His transparency to her unnerved him. Cersei was birthed in the same hour, shared every heartbeat and yet their desires were concealed. Brienne opened his thoughts as though she'd plucked him from a maester's shelf. “Yes... I'd rather Lord Baelish were here.”

“You are inclined to kill him.” It was a statement rather than a question. “Dare I ask what he did to offend you in particular?”

He set his cup down on the stone. There was a heavy scent of smoke mixed into the fog, trailing over the land from the pyres surrounding the castle. “Baelish killed my son.”

Brienne stiffened. Of course she knew of his children but to hear it from his lips...

“Cersei... she has it in her head that either Sansa or Tyrion conspired to murder the king but her logic is clouded by hate and drink.” Jaime shied away from the bottle. Liquor only served to make the voices of his nightmares louder. “She'd blame my brother for the Winter snows if they came early and as for the Stark girl? When the king died your lady was a frightened child.”

“I understand Lord Baelish is a depraved snake of a man but do you think has it in him to kill a king?”

“It is no accident that he vanished with Sansa moments after the act. He was prepared with ships waiting in the harbour beyond view. At the very least, he was aware of the plot. It served his purpose and as he has proved, Baelish is not afraid to kill for a crown. Ask her if you do not believe me.”

“And now you believe he'd move against Lady Stark when the time came?”

“No – not his red-haired beauty. Baelish is going to kill Eddard's last son. The bastard.”

“Jon Stark?”

“Is that what they're calling him now? Yes. As I understand it, the fate of the realm lays in the balance of his life. Lord Baelish cannot be allowed to murder the Stark heir so regardless of Lady Stark's inclination, Baelish _must_ die.”

She wondered why he suddenly cared what happened to the North. Surely he did not hold any affection for the frost-kept mountains? “And you want to be the one that holds the blade.”

“It is my right – as was yours taking Stannis Baratheon's head. I am not the only kingslayer on this rooftop.”

They drank their tea quietly for a while. If Bronn and Podrick had ever wondered what happened to them they'd long since stopped looking. Brienne exhaled forming a cloud of vapour that lifted above their small fire. “Pretend for a moment that I agree...”

“Mmm...” Jaime watched Brienne carefully. She was loyal and his desire to murder Baelish was directly against Lady Stark's wish. It could tear apart their fragile alliance in an instant.

“The timing would be _delicate_. Lady Stark is right about one thing – Baelish is useful to her cause.” She waited to see if he understood her meaning. Eventually, a smile touched his lips, one that only she could command of him.

“Pretend _I_ agree.” He laid his hand on the melted wall beside them. The rock bore a deep gash where a dragon claw had slice right through the granite. “I still find it difficult to picture the story you told me of the Winterfell dragon,” he admitted, changing the subject. “The evidence is all around us but even then... My brother would have loved it. He was obsessed with dragons when we were small. He used to pester my father to borrow books on them from the Citadel. It was the only thing father indulged him in. We'd go hunting for eggs in the sea caves near Casterly rock.”

“Did you find any?”

“Not even a bone. The only thing we found in those caverns were runes and a few rats.”

“Daenerys Targaryen is coming for the Iron Throne... You'll see dragons then.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“I cannot talk about that – you know this.” She looked away. There was something heartbreaking in his eyes. Their honesty was limited to the will of their monarchs. “I just wish – wish that...” She felt his hand on her arm. “If you ride South you _will die_. No army can stand in front of three dragons and live.”

“I _have_ to ride South, when the time comes. For Cersei and Tommen.”

“I know you do.”

Brienne looked at his hand clutching lightly at her sleeve. “I have to remain here.”

“I know you do... Why do you look at me like that?” He asked, when Brienne searched his face. She swept every crease around his eyes and found something in them that unsettled her. She did not answer and he did not let go.

*~*~*

Lyanna Mormont made no effort to hide her part in Lord Baelish's capture.

“A letter from Sansa,” she replied to Ser Davos' unuttered query. His constant presence at her side was a mystery to Lyanna. What interest did Stannis' man have in her? “She asks me to meet her in the Godwood.”

“Well, you _did_ trade her pet lord for an army without asking.”

“True enough.”

Which is why she obliged, taking her horse across the ice fields alone to the wood beside the castle. It was becoming more difficult to pick it out from the surrounding wilderness as the snows continued. In a few weeks from now the North would simply be _white_.

Lyanna dismounted and dragged herself through the knee deep powder until the hot springs appeared. With bedrock underfoot, she wandered the edge of the steaming pool, waiting for the Stark. They thought themselves above the other Northern houses – self proclaimed keepers of the North. In reality, they were butchers and war lords that policed the unruly clans whose harsh environment would forever leave them pitched against civilisation. Only those who lived in the extremes such as the Mormonts and kin of the Night's Watch truly felt the march of Winter approach.

“Do you serve me, Lady Mormont?” Sansa asked, as she arrived behind the _Weirwood_ tree. The face snarling from the trunk bled fresh tears.

“I serve the _North_ ,” Lyanna replied defiantly, more aware of the sword on her hip than she wished. “And in this I served you well.”

“You may well have killed Lord Baelish if my man cannot win his freedom.” Sansa could hear the sharpness in her words. They were coloured with emotion that had no place in manners of survival. Perhaps that is why she felt small beside the stoic Mormont who could weather hell itself.

“All the better but if he lives, he has lost his claws, my lady.”

“That was not your choice to make. What good is a powerless lord to me?”

“What good is he at all?” The bear quipped. “If you are seeking an apology...”

Sansa gripped her face, wishing to tear it off. “I do not know what I seek. A part of me wishes you'd killed him outright. I know what it is to be trapped in a cage. Better to be in the ground.”

“All of my family are in the ground.”

“All I want,” she recovered, “is for you to _tell me_ of your intentions. This time, the truth. I will have honesty in our alliance. My father taught me the value of honour-”

“Eddard Stark is _dead_.” Lyanna interrupted. “Jon Arryn is dead. Jeor Mormont is dead. Your brothers. Your mother. Our maesters and countless bannermen. Honesty _killed them_. When I was handed the fate of Bear Island at seven I swore to set aside the shackles of their ghosts and submit to survival. _I pledged myself to the North_. I will serve you, Lady Stark, until the dead rip my skin from the bone.”

“I am blind to him...” Sansa breathed. “What if I asked you to be my ears – to whisper truth when I cannot find it? No one can survive the Winter without help. I am – I am asking you, Lady Mormont, to help me.”

Lyanna's hand slipped from her sword. She stepped off the black rocks around the pool and entered the soft snow where she withdrew her sword and knelt at the queen's feet. Her hands lifted the blade toward Sansa.

“Are there words to say?”

“No, Your Grace. It is done.”

*~*~*

“This place is fucked...” Bronn ripped feathers off a wood duck, tossing them into the fire. It smoked furiously, choking Podrick who stepped away in disdain. “Makes you bloody wonder, doesn' it – why anyone bothered warring o'er it in the first place.”

“People war over anything,” Podrick replied. “War for the sake of warring if they've nothing else to do.”

“Yeah well next time one of our lords gets it into their head to war it should be somewhere warm. A fucking desert. Dorne was a'right. Riverlands were a shit-pile of mud. What about Highgarden, eh? Fucking paradise.”

“I've missed this,” his reply was drenched in ire. “Your infinite wisdom cast into the world.”

“Don' come at me like tha' 'cause your lady's screwing my lord.”

“They're _not..._ Oh never mind.” Bronn was not able to understand the delicacy of the situation so Podrick gave up trying to explain and turned his attention to the birds. “We should be hunting some of those wolves. I saw them this morning, lined up along the edge of the forest. Hundreds of them. I don't fancy your odds if Ser Jaime decides to march South.”

“If you want to hunt one of those mange things, be my guest. I'm 'avin' duck.”

Podrick tried not to look into the creature's glassy eyes as he held its neck over the board and hatcheted it off. With four hideously mis-matched armies watching over _Winterfell_ the castle was turning to a putrid slurry. The sound of steel hitting stone echoed through every second of daylight while the walls were rebuilt. _Wildlings_ taught the Southerners how to make swathes of cloth out of animal hide while the locals pitched tents on the ice surrounding the castle and fished the frozen river beneath.

“I will die here...” said Podrick, his hands covered in freezing blood from the duck.

“What rubbish are you on about now?”

“I feel it. One of these nights you'll toss me in a pyre and watch me turn to smoke.”

“If you die,” Bronn began, quite seriously, “I'll go an' find whichever blasted god can be bothered with your prayers and drag you back 'ere. I ain' fighting the wars to come without you moanin' the whole bloody time. Wouldn' be right.”

Despite everything, Podrick grinned and laid his hand briefly on Bronn's back. The towering man ducked away from the touch.

“You got blood 'n all on me now.”

*~*~*

“Well?” Davos Seaworth waited at the edge of the Godwood for the Mormont lady. “I told you she wouldn't like your plan.”

“You worry about the wrong things, Ser Seaworth.”

“I'm not a Ser...” he reminded her again.

“And you should be half way to Jon Stark's side. He'll need your dry council amidst all the flowery words of the Southern lords and if you do not go, who will write to us of our lord's progress?”

“Aye...” She was right but he was reluctant. “Cannot someone else go?”

She took his offered hand and together they walked across the open fields of snow while her horse followed dutifully. Lyanna felt Davos slide on the ice, unsteady on his feet. “Ask my blacksmith for spikes on your boots,” she offered. “You'll never outrun the dead in those.”

“I'll do that,” he nodded. “I thought of somewhere else I might go. I'm not sure how many of the Southern stories reach this far North. There was a great battle, on the Blackwater. Tyrion Lannister set the night on fire with wildfire.”

“Even the Wildlings heard those stories. They say King's Landing burned like the sun.”

“The way I see it, fire is the only weapon we 'ave against this army coming from the North. There are not enough forests to burn so we'll need to find something else. Lady Stark has the Bolton coin. Old Town and its maesters covet vast stock piles of wildfire. Why not buy it, tip it o'er the wall and set the snow alight?”

###  **THE EYRIE – THE VALE OF ARRYN**

Lord Baelish backed away from the cusp of stone separating permanence from the abyss. A gale of wind howled from the _Narrow Sea_ and slammed into the granite walls which such force there were nights he swore he felt the castle sway. He pressed himself into the furthest corner and crouched, drawing his robes around himself to stop his limbs from freezing. The view stretched on forever. A vast chasm at the foot of the castle followed by sharp, black peaks then a second layer, dusted in snow and scattered in the valleys – a strip of water. At night he could see the glow of market towns dotted over the vista. When the sea fogs swept in there was nothing at all. Endless oblivion.

Tyrion never spoke of his time in the _Eyrie_ and now Petyr was left to wonder if it had been like this... He could not sleep. They did not feed him. The wine was sour and the frequent beatings from his jailers served only to remind him that the worst waited on the other side of the Moon Door.

Perhaps he should choose his own fate. Farewell life of his own volition.

Emboldened, Petyr scraped himself off the stone and crawled to the edge of the cell. A fierce torrent of wind kicked him in the face. He forced his eyes open against the onslaught. His heart raced. Hands shook. _No..._ If his end lay on the rocks he would make the gods wait. While ever he breathed there was hope.

The days blurred together until a lowly knight dragged him from the cell and tossed him into a smaller room inside the castle. This, at least, had walls. He found himself clinging to them – relishing the simple pleasure of vertical stone. Clothes were thrown in his direction so he dressed, transferring his mockingbird pin to his collar. An unfamiliar beard scratched across his hands as he washed his face. There was just enough light for him to make out his reflection.

 _I look like my father_ , he realised. A man who spent less years in the world than he had.

That night, his trial began in the heights of the _Eyrie_.

###  **KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS**

Tycho Nestoris descended the cobbled wall from the city street and wove through the narrow pathways in the rock, heading for the beach as the tide pulled away. The waters left a stretch of rubble littered with broken, rusted remnants of warfare. The Battle for the Blackwater... Nameless conflicts which were even older. Occasionally he stepped over the skeletal remains of limbs left unclaimed. Any jewels they might have worn were picked over daily by the starving wretches amassing in the city.

Without loans from the _Iron Bank_ , the city was in the process of consuming itself. Crime filled the streets with blood. Starvation bred disease and the people, too tired to rally against their masters, slumped on the roads in defeat.

He wasn't interested in the city. Tycho moved quickly until he fell under the shadow of the _Red Keep_. There was a nest of sea caves above and sewers covered with iron bars. He climbed as far as he dared then whistled at the depths. Footsteps followed and then a cowering servant who unlocked one of the water courses and handed him a torch.

The roar of their flames folded double against the low tunnel. Tycho ignored the warm water sloshing at his knees and focused on the curve of light ahead. At the other end he found a solitary welcoming party.

“Welcome, Nestoris,” Olenna opened her arms to the sewer, with all her jewels glittering, “to the Capital.”

*~*~*

“It is worse than I thought,” he admitted, when they were safely tucked away in one of the dungeon cellars. He held his sleeve across his face to dilute the stench while the Queen of Thorns remained unaffected. She had been living with the shit far longer. “Although last I heard you were a captive of the High Sparrow.”

“The High Sparrow and I came to an arrangement,” Olenna replied.

“Does that arrangement have anything to do with him locked in the Sept of Baelor? It is of no consequence to me. I am not your jailers.”

Olenna laughed, picking at the stone walls. Her fingernails were like thorns and her features wrinkled beyond measure like the rings in a tree. She had seen too much of the world to be either impressed or surprised by it. “The Iron Bank are jailers to the whole world,” she assured him. “Or you _were_ , until recently. Everyone, I fear, has heard about your run in with the dragon princess. Your presence here tells me that some of of those stories are true. I must admit that I was surprised to receive your invitation. If a Targaryen is coming for the throne of Westeros I'd imagine you'd support her claim. Targaryens are good for business. Conquest does wonders for the coffers.”

“We _are_ supporting her claim,” he assured the Tyrell monarch. “For all their proclamations, Lannisters do not possess any gold they did not first borrow from us. The Baratheons burned through money as if it were Wildfire and the Blackfire rebellion bankrupted a thousand years of conquest. Incredible – how fast empires are plundered. You... The wheels turns over and over and yet the Tyrell fortune replenishes with every passing Summer.”

“That is because we _build_ our fortune from the land. Our farms are more constant than feuding nations.”

“Constant – yes... That is the word I was looking for,” Tycho slid his hood off his head. He could not settle his nerves anywhere outside _Braavos._ “A Targaryen empire birthed in fire is going to need some stability.”

“Did Varys put you up to this?”

“No... but I imagine he'd try if ever we were to meet again. You are a good investment...” Tycho did not think of Olenna as a rose so much as a forest of thorns. He could not unravel any hint of her intentions toward him. There was every possibility she might decide to offer him up to Cersei to ransom the bank and break the starvation of the city. She'd be terribly disappointed. He was gambling that Olenna's vision looked further into the future. “When Illyrio died at sea, the Lannisters and their Baratheon king lost their main smuggling ring and the primary source of income. Oh yes, we know about that. As we have taken a position of refusing all loans until the outstanding accounts – which cannot be paid – are settled, the Capital has next to no revenue. Now – here is the part you do not know...”

Olenna leaned forward. “The part that explains why you have taken an interest in our fate?”

“Essos is in ruins – besieged by a flesh-eating plague that has cast cities into darkness. Everything East of the Painted Mountains has fallen quiet. With nothing to raid, an enormous fleet of pirates have amassed and made the journey to Dorne where they partook in the sacking of The Sunspear.”

“The Sunspear fell?”

“Reports are difficult to come by but a civil war sprang up, spurred on by the Targaryen's presence. The pirates joined the fray, by all accounts on the Targaryen's side and then withdrew their ships from the harbour and set off North – towards us under some kind of understanding with Daenerys.”

“Pirates are of little consequence to a guarded peninsula like us.”

“Pirates create chaos. Look at what the raiders of the North have done to the Western coast.” Tycho nearly choked on the foul gust of wind. “Is there nowhere else we can meet?”

“That depends on whether you wish to catch Cersei's attention. Her madness grows daily – shadowing that poor boy of hers.”

“The pirates have their eyes set on a far greater sight than the crumbling walls of the capital. They've no use for a throne – only gold and where better to find gold than the ill-defended harbour of -”

“Braavos...” Olenna finished for him. “Oh dear... I am presuming the queen's dragons put a sizeable dent in your security. If I were a pirate, I'd sail toward the largest treasure house in the world too. You have seen my position here in King's Landing. My daughter is tied to the empire by marriage – and its debts. My son has sunk into hiding after the butchery of the religious order that has infected this place like your plague of the dead and Cersei is all but ruler in name – and she is swept up in her own paranoia so much so that I hear here whispering of green fire as she stalks the halls at night. What is it that you imagine I can do for you?”

“You paint yourself as a helpless bystander but you, Lady Tyrell, are a kingmaker. Having not fancied the previous king you made yourself a new one but his weakness was both his allure and his danger. The Faith of the Seven have been kept at bay by strong kings and the moment a boy sat on the throne they embedded themselves in your garden like a weed. At this moment you have a daughter on the throne but you also have a son. The dragon queen from the East will need a king. I can bargain with her to name that king your heir and a peaceful transference of power if you distract this pirate hoard with rosy promises. Make contact with the savages. Bargain on behalf of the Iron Throne. We will pay directly for our protection with a healthy cut for those that barter in our name.”

 _Now who is making kings?_ She mused. “It is a lovely plan, Nestoris – attractive but not even Cersei will fail to notice a pirate fleet blackening her shores. She is mad not blind.”

“Pirates desire more than gold. They feed off blood. Offer them the Sparrows. Cersei will not only approve. She will thank you for it. Hand her the throne and I will gift you the empire.”

###  **PRINCE'S PASS – THE RED MOUNTAINS**

It was the roof of the world. At their peak, the _Red Mountains_ parted to reveal the velvet carpet of the _Dornish Marches_. To their left, the rises of _Nightsong_ and _Horn Hill_ loomed lazily from the iridescent green flats and beyond them, the blur of _Highgarden's_ coloured poppy fields. The mountain ranges of _Storm's End_ were a shadow on the right – a mess of volcanic stone and moss-drowned valleys while the great expanse of _The Reach_ stretched endlessly ahead. It was difficult to imagine, standing on the cusp of _Dorne,_ that such a thing could finish but it did. Beyond the curve of the horizon the snows waited and all the horror of her dreams.

“We will have to fight our way through the marches,” Darkstar warned, joining the silver queen and her knight at the front of the army. “Dornish men have died across these fields for thousands of years and more of their kind in our mountains. They'll have spotted us at the last pass. Nightsong fort is the keeper of this road. We will see their lights when the sky darkens.”

“I have no intention of wasting men on the road to King's Landing,” Daenerys replied. She levelled a meaningful look in Jorah's direction and then turned, leaving the knight and the Dayne to the view.

“What does the queen mean by that?”

Jorah nodded at the shadow of _Drogon_ high above. “The queen means to proceed as her ancestors. She has studied the history since she was a child and understands the best way to conquer the minor forts in on the back of a dragon. I imagine, by the time we pass Nightsong, it will either have dragon banners rippling against the castle walls or smoulder in ruin.” He heard a second dragon cry on the air. His heart raced as _Viserion_ joined his brother, tearing at the clouds.

*~*~*

“You look worried, Ser...”

“He won't settle...” Jorah replied, reaching for _Viserion's_ wing. The dragon had his snout in the dirt, pushing firmly at the ground – snorting the dust as he searched for lizards.

 _Drogon_ chirped at his mother, setting his enormous golden eye on the queen. She stood beside him, reaching to his face which she stroked gently until that eye closed and his calls turned to a faint rumble – like thunder inside the mountains.

“Riding has helped tame him,” Jorah added, watching the queen with her dragon. “In fact, I think he is quite fond of it.”

“That is why you are coming with me,” Daenerys smiled softly. “Viserion is not used to his harness – the Dothraki have remade that strap twice after he tore through it. If he does not take to it you will need to ride him bareback.”

“I almost prefer it,” Jorah admitted. “At least I can have faith in my footing.” For the moment, he persevered with the saddle – climbing up the lengths of leather until he swung his leg over and set it in the specially fashioned stirrup. _Viserion_ shook his head making his entire body quake. He arched forwards, puffing smoke into the lizard holes which turned the ground around them into a smoking hill. The red lizards burrowed deeper as the dragon's claws scratched furiously at the dirt. “Steady...” he murmured against _Viserion's_ scales.

“Even standing so close,” Daenerys added, walking calmly up _Drogon's_ outstretched wing, “he is difficult to pick out from the mountains. Every day a new marble of colour bleeds through his scales. It is as though he is changing to match the world.”

“He is a predator, hiding. Drogon has no inclination to hide.” Although, as Jorah watched the regal dragon lift the queen onto his back, he realised that in the black mountains behind _Asshai_ he'd be entirely invisible. “Quaithe has not woken. She mumbles foreign words in her sleep. Only the Dothraki witches will sit with her. The others think that she is cursed. Whatever she dreams, she has fallen too far into the lands of mist.”

Finally, _Viserion_ dragged a screaming reptile out by the tail. It thrashed wildly around the black curve of a claw embedded in its back. Its cries pierced the air. Jorah had never heard anything quite so desperate – so brutal. It wailed and wailed as the jaws came down over it and then the world was quiet.

 _Viserion's_ wings pulled back together. His shoulder blades contracted, lifting Jorah and his harness several feet. The reins tightened in his hands as the leather wing tips towered overhead. Gold. Red. Cream. The colours danced across his scales as he snapped his wings back down and forced the air at the ground. Together, he and his brother pushed off the edge of the cliff and a moment later they were falling together. Jorah copied Daenerys, laying his body down against the dragon so the violet rush of air slipped over his body. He could feel the lift inflating _Viserion's_ wings like the sails of a ship, buoying him in the air. The army appeared as a glistening blur on their left as the dragons raced each other toward the ground. Jorah slammed his eyes shut s the waterlogged marches approached.

The impact never came.

At the last breath, both dragons veered sharply, rising as fast as they had fallen.

###  **MANTARYS – THE LANDS OF THE LONG SUMMER**

Pins made from sapphire, ruby, emerald and pearl held the yards of yellow silk around Pol Qo's cone-shaped head. Across his traditional ochre robes he wore a red sash with embroidered dragons. Their twisted forms had meaning beyond the new silver queen. Dragons once ravaged the plains of his ancestral home. They were symbols of fear and power. His throne was made of polished dragon bone – now empty and gathering sand.

Behind, on the edges of _Sea of Sighs_ , the columns of _Mantarys_ had collapsed into the water like teeth in the jaws of a Cracken. Red water lapped at the fleet, swollen with flowering weed which moved in great swirls where sea snakes the size of trees made their daily hunt from East to West.

Every tree that touched the water died, bleached and collapsed into the sea. A few fleeing vessels scampered ahead of Pol Qo's newly acquired fleet. They would catch them by nightfall and burn their boats. His sorcerer had set fire to the besieged city with a clap of his hands, terrifying all who saw his curved fingernails scrape through the dirt outside the walls. The demon men of _Mantarys_ were nothing but inbred, sickly creatures with hideous deformities caused by the poisoned water. Pol Qo himself killed a man with five arms and another with a single yellow eye in the centre of his forehead. They fell like all the rest. Bone and skin. The stone dragon heads atop their great temple were hacked free and mounted at the city gates as a warning.

Dragons had returned to the world.

Pol Qo hissed in High Valyrian, eyes fixed on the gaping catastrophe of mountains on the other side of the sea. He wondered if eyes watched from the ruins of Valyria. If the ghosts of dragon riders filled the sky with anger. For now it remained a stain on the horizon – a grey smear.

###  **THE SUMMER SEA – EAST OF VOLANTIS**

“They ain't coming,” Theon leaned against the rail. There was a red blush to the water where the enormous mouth of a river spewed forth the tortured waters of the _Sea of Sighs._

“Pol Qo's army stole the fleet at Mantarys. Mantarian ships moor in the Sea of Sighs. There are only two ways out of that landlocked sea. East or West. If he intends on sacking Volantis, he'll head West – right here. So we wait.”

“And if he went East he will sail right by us along the Summer Isles and reach Westeros with a week's head start. We'll never catch them.”

“I can always tell when a man's in a hurry. No. Pol Qo is sailing West. We wait.”

And so they waited with their stolen fleet. Ironborn, sleeping on the waves. They had no home to return to that would no first have to be made with blood. Victarion sent Asha frequent ravens, reminding her of the torture that awaited should they meet again. She could not help but feel that her uncle _longed_ to flay their limbs and salt their skins, leaving them to hang along the shore of the _Iron Islands_. What's done was done.

“How many ships did Mantarys have?” Theon asked, later that night. They sat on deck playing cards with their lanterns burned low.

“Not as many as Pol Qo would like. They will lay heavy in the water. He is not looking for a fight on the waves. The ships are merely a passage to the next war. He'll be cautious, meeting a fleet of our size out here in the water.”

“That is why you are flying the flag of peace. It'll be just our luck that those savages have never heard of peace.”

“Those 'savages' to which you keep referring speak fluent High Valyrian – the queen's language. More than half are the descendants of the greatest empire ever known and the rest could tear apart the Iron Islands in an afternoon. Treat them with respect,” Asha cautioned, “or they will kill you. They have no patience for games. There – see the lights?” She stood up and tossed her cards on the table. A set of lights had appeared at the mouth of the river, staring out from the black. “Ships.”

“Do you remember,” Theon breathed, as he came to stand beside her in the darkness, “what it was like to die? When the old man held us beneath the water as babes and waited for our lungs to choke...”

“Of course not, brother.”

“I dream of it. The cold. The darkness cut apart by the pale halo of the sun. I can feel my heart stop and the salt burn through my body. And then, in the last gasps of life, their song starts. The wretches beneath the waves. Half-woman, half-fish beckoning fools to their doom. Tentacles wrap around my limbs and drive the last breath away and then there is nothing but the cold.”

Asha's eyes were on Theon. There was a darkness there she did not like. “There is nothing in the sea, brother, that sings a song like that.”

“The sea gods are real,” he continued, staring into the black. “They raised their armies from the dead sailors and raided the lands of the living. Our uncle sits on their poisoned throne. What is dead may never die.”

“ _What is dead may never die...”_ Asha whispered the mantra.

Another light appeared in the dark, this time further South. The gaping islands of Old Valyria shook, clearing ash from their throats. Then, from deep within the Earth, fire made its way up the old mining tunnels and erupted from one of the mountains. Like a star rising in the dawn, it cast long beacons of light over the water. Several minutes later a roar of thunder hit their ships.

“What gods are those?” Theon breathed, ducking as the roar reverberated through the wood.

“Olds gods.”

###  **NIGHTFORT – THE NORTH**

Edd marched out to meet the army approaching from the East. A foot beneath the powder at his knees he could feel the slate bedrock, smooth and slanting away from the towering wall of ice. If the snows ever melted the entire North would become a desert of pitch – a sea of dragonglass.

Cub and several of the other Night's Watch men joined him. There they stood, side by side breathing mist into the dusk.

“Lord Reed,” Edd dipped his head as the man slipped off his grey horse. He led the reluctant through the snow toward the black cloaks. “I heard yous were comin' but I didn' believe. No place for river lords 'ere.”

“There is always a place for a man with an army,” Howland Reed replied. They were scraps of men, barely able to hold their heavy cloaks off the snow. Winter was eating them alive. “I am here for my penance, same as you. The King in the North sent me to help. Tell me how to help.”

Edd's eyes were wide as he looked past the lord to his sprawling army. They shivered in the cold, falling under _The Wall's_ shadow. The convoy had been walking beside it for so many miles that the awe had worn off leaving behind a dull clench of dread. He did not know why but every time Edd looked to _The Wall_ it became a fraction shorter.

“Man the fort – same as my orders,” Edd finally found his voice. “The Black Gate is the passage North. We're 'ere to make sure nothin' comes through it.”

Reed's gaze drifted to the boy beside. For a moment he became trapped in Cub's eyes. He'd seen them before on another face. Infinite depths that held aching chasms of ice. A Prince of Winter. “It is larger than I envisioned,” Howland finally drew his attention back to the looming silhouette of the Nightfort. Capped in several feet of ice, its edges were blurred against _The Wall_. “My men will have space to spare.”

“Fuckin' cursed corpse of a thing...” Edd shook his head at the castle. “Nothin' but misery and death. Make yourselves at 'ome.”

Howland did just that, spreading his men through the castle – sending others into the woods to hunt. They brought back bear on their first evening, slaughtering the beast beside a raging bonfire. The heat began to melt the front of the castle. Edd watched it warily, worried the old beast of a fortress was held together by that ice.

Cub kept to the fringes, more interested in the soft chink of fresh snow against the surface of _The Wall_ than their new guests. He sought out solitude. Drifted to the flanks where stone met ice. Stars spun overhead, piercing from the dark. He imagined waves of bones washing on the other side of _The Wall_ , rising up the surface – brimming at the top.

“Boy...” Howland approached the Night's Watchman cautiously. He was a wild thing, cowering in the shadows. “You a Northern runaway, then?”

Cub shook his head. “Southerner, Ser.”

“Lord...” Howland corrected. “Dornish?” He added, noting the accent.

“From the mountains.”

Perhaps his suspicions were wrong but then the boy would turn his head again and Howland swore there were ghosts in his eyes.

“Not many of you kind venture this far.” Howland offered Cub a piece of meat from the bear. “Even the Northerners keep clear of The Wall. There's little up here but Starks, Bears and Freefolk.”

“And the dead...”

A chill ran through Howland's blood.

That night, Cub climbed the ice stairway cut into _The Wall_. At the top he found hundreds of frozen corpses, left where they'd fallen. Their flesh frozen solid. They stared out into the night with perfect glass eyes. Like a painting in a grand palace, the Knight's Watch bodies clasped their swords, even in death. _They should burn those bodies._

“Aye fuck...” said Edd hours later, standing beside Cub. “They just left 'em here...” He knelt down beside one of the grim figures. The frozen man was shorter than average but sturdy with thick arms and an even thicker beard. Terrible scars crossed his face with curdled blood. This one

“Is he from The Long Night?” Cub asked in a whisper.

“Nah... That were ten thousand year ago. He ain' that old. Look at his cloak...” The uniform of the Night's Watch evolved over the centuries. “A few 'undred years – maybe. No more.” And yet he could have died last night. “Must 'ave been a Wildling raid by the look of them arrows.”

“We can't leave them here. When the Others come these men will wake.”

“They're frozen solid,” Edd replied. Each body was cocooned in layers of ice. “But you're right. They can' stay 'ere. Walk the Wall a while – see what else is up 'ere.”

 _Oblivion_. White – endless – frozen – hell.

He stepped through a small stone keep and onto the next frontier of ice. This time it was free of bodies. Cub looked along the line of ice with _The Lands of Always Winter_ to the left and the sweeping frozen moors of the _North_ on his right. Strange, how the ground appeared to have been melted before being covered in sheets of ice.

Ahead, the ice moved.

Cub went for his sword, drawing it against the cold. It moved again. A small bundle of fur propped up against the ice. He edged closer. Gripped his blade. “You there!” he shouted, when he realised it was a man. Not much of one. The huddle rocked back and forth. A hood slipped back revealing a thick grey beard. It was half frozen and flecked with blood. “S'all right...” Cub turned the edge of his sword away. The creature looked mad. “Come on – away from the edge. See this cloak?” He pulled at his black cape. “I'm a Night's Watchman. We're in the fort below. There's food an' a fire...”

The crazed man was not as small as Cub first thought. As he picked himself off the edge of the wall, he towered over Cub with broad shoulders and fierce arms. Starvation thinned his figure but the muscles clung to the bone. “Night's Watch?” The man stammered, latching onto a moment of clarity.

Cub nodded. “Night's Watch. We're here to protect you no matter wha' you are. Doesn' matter any more so long as you're breathing, you're one of us.” He sheathed his sword and offered a hand instead. “Please... You're the only one we've found alive.”

Dorin Fell took Cub's hand and found himself returned to the living.

 


	73. Fire Made Flesh

 

###  **NIGHTFORT – THE NORTH**

“How long's he been out there?” Edd asked, unable to take his eyes off the old man sunning himself by the fire. He ate ravenously, tearing strips of bear-meat off the bone. Ice melted from his matted beard and shoulder-length hair leaving a wreak of _death_ around him. “Been in some kind of fight he has...” Edd added, nodding at the fresh scars. Angry purple lines crossed all over his flesh. “Recent. Month or so back, no more. Did you manage to find out anything about him?”

“A little,” Cub replied. “He's from West of here. Walked along the front of The Wall for months searching for the Night's Watch but all them castles are abandoned. This one was too, when he arrived. He climbed up there to get away from the wolves.”

“He's been up there since we got 'ere? Bloody hell.”

“Says his name is Dorin Fell. The only thing West of 'ere is Bear Island so odds are that's where he's from.”

“Got a bit of a bearish look about 'im. Big bloody bastards. Feed him up. Anyone that can hold a sword is good news far as I see it though he migh' lose a few of those fingers.”

“There was something else,” Cub added, before Edd could leave. “He's come all this way looking for the Lord Commander.”

“He tell you why?” Cub shook his head. “All right.” Edd folded his arms. “Let him sit there for a while an' find his wits. There's an air of madness about him needs burnin' off. Being out in the ice does tha' to the best of us. It'll pass. We used to see it in the ranging parties when they returned.” Edd tapped the boy on the shoulder. He'd done well.

In the meantime, Reed sent scores of soldiers up the ice steps to the top of _The Wall_ with oil and torches – chisels and axes. They swarmed over the bodies, hacking them free or melting those that had fused to the ice. The corpses were thrown over the edge, landing beside the _Nightfort_ where men waited to drag them onto roaring pyres built from ancient pine Goliaths. They grew higher and higher, burning away the permafrost until there was a halo of black stone staring into the night like some fearsome eye.

Edd watched, thumbing the tip of an arrow head plucked from a body. His gaze moved from the fire to the _Nightfort_. “Think those stories were true?”

Howland Reed drank in the grisly view. He wore twice as much fur and still shook. “You only have to look at it. Power corrupts. Even Lord Commanders are not immune to its wiles.”

“No – I mean the woman,” Edd replied. “The dead thing the Thirteenth Lord Commander took as a wife. They say she was one of the Others. How desperate must you be to fuck a corpse, eh?”

“I heard that Lord Commander was a Stark,” Reed added darkly. “I heard he had a name.”

*~*~*

Dorin kept one eye on the woods which encroached upon his fire. The frozen trees and their needles of ice refused the caress of wind. Snow falling against their limbs sounded like Spring rain. Gentle, pure and false. He didn't trust the darkness. In his months alone he'd seen things between the trees that defied logic. A silver woman with a voice of ice and chains of pearls woven through her hair. He'd watched her wander along the edge of _The Wall_ , dragging her claws against the surface. In their wake, the winter roses bloomed into someone else's nightmare.

“We've a horse to take you to Castle Black,” Edd sat down beside Dorin and poured hot wine into his cup. “You'll be speakin' to the Lord Commander.”

Dorin nodded, feeling some of his strength return. “They are trying to come in from the West.” Finally he spoke. “I met a man from the Citadel who lived with the Wildlings. We sailed to the Bridge of Skulls and waited. You know it? Then they came... A plague of bone, white like the snow...” He lost his breath, gasping at the memory. _His hand trembling on the bow._ “I can still hear the sound of them crawling over the ice. Terrible sound. It doesn't leave you. Forever moving forward. Never dying. You've seen them too.”

Edd nodded. “Aye... I seen 'em.”

“Then you know the ache of cold that comes on the air.” Dorin pierced deep into Edd's eyes. “We destroyed the bridge and cut the bastards off from Westeros but they will find a way around. Westwatch-by-the-Bridge barely stands. The edge of the Wall has fallen into the gorge leaving cracks any man can pass through. Dead or alive. Half these men should ride West – build what they can or hack the cliff away. That is where they'll start the attack and once they're on this side of The Wall the gods will be no use to us.”

“I will speak to Lord Reed tonight.” He promised.

“Not that it matters...” Dorin trailed off. “The Bay of Ice is freezing. All we are doing at this wall is delaying.”

*~*~*

Edd was shaken. He cornered Lord Reed inside the _Nightfort_ where they could be alone. They both stayed away from the walls which were coated in some form of scent-less oil. “If this man is tellin' the truth we'll need a fuck load more swords on these walls.”

“I have already sent ravens,” Reed assured him. “We can only ask the realm for help – it cannot be forced upon them. I fear there aren't many more to find who aren't already on their way. The wars in the South have taken a heavy toll. Those who were children in Robert's rebellion are barely grown. There has not been enough peace...”

“Then send your ravens further!”

“Across the Narrow Sea?” He scoffed. “To what end? Essos cares nothing for our troubles. We are alone.”

“I pray you are wrong – or we'll be dead...”

###  **NIGHTSONG – DORNISH MARCHES**

The Dornish Marches also happened to be sad expanses of soggy marsh except for the narrow road which twisted from hill to hill. At their wettest, they descended into broad lagoons of grey water choked with ibis. The rest was an unfathomable nightmare of grass and mud that felled armies. It was a land of permanent battle whose only buildings were defiant castles like that of _Nightsong_.

Built on a wide mountain and surrounded by terraces, its pastel stone and Western architecture made it look as though it had grown there.

On dragon-back, Jorah and Daenerys were cut off from one another. They could neither shout nor motion commands of any kind so they landed in the wet ground a safe distance from the castle. Their beasts huddled together, testing the tough water grass before moving onto the allure of fat wood ducks.

“Do we know who occupies it?” Daenerys asked.

“The Dayne says the bastard Rolland Storm. He was in the company of the two failed Baratheon challengers and set up a mining colony at Dragonstone – digging for obsidian.” Raping her home for profit. “That all came to an end after a run in with the Crown. Rolland is hiding here and while he may not like the Dornish that's not to say he's opposed to a dragon.”

“Bastards ache for legitimacy.”

“Which the Crown will _never_ bestow.”

“It is neither here nor there to me who fought who or the legitimacy of a minor lord.”

“Exactly. Ah – there is life in them yet. They've lit the fires.” The castle was set into life by a serious of pyres stacked atop the walls. “A rider will be sent. Rolland has little to gain from a war with you.”

They moved their dragons closer to the castle, setting down on the gravel road. A horse approached, pounding toward them with a constant splash of hooves where shallow rivers ran freely across the road. Its rider carried a white banner unfurling in his wake like one of the water birds startled from the reeds. The dragons sensed danger and remained close, wading shy of the road with their wings dipping into the water. Jorah loomed next to the queen in his usual swagger with one hand on _Dawn_ and _Snowflake_ glistening across his back.

If this was their first contact with _Westeros_ , he hoped they could find a way to end peacefully.

“Un-be- _fucking_ -lievable...” The rider spoke first, as he dismounted. He was no messenger. Those were all young, disposable boys worth a grain of sand. This man was in his forties, sturdy and horribly scarred from pox with one eye bulging larger than the other. “You hear things on the wind,” he continued, strutting uncomfortably close to the queen until Jorah reminded him of his presence by shifting. “Dragons and the like. Here you are – Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Saviour of the Realm, in the flesh.” His look bordered on leering. Bet you shit silver.”

“Saviour of the Realm?” Daenerys asked, navigating him cautiously.

“Well, so long as you're not a Lannister I suppose... You are here to kill them, aren't you? That's what they say...” His attention kept wandering to the dragons. They were not as big as the stories but they were sizeable enough to melt his castle back into the earth. “Ah... you were spoiling for a fight,” he mused, at the queen's apparent disappointment. “Love a fight, me but the truth is I don't give a fuck for the Crown nor do most of the lords this way – 'cept maybe Tarly over yonder at Hornhill. I'd like nothing more than to see them burn and as it looks like you're on your way to do just that, I send my regards.” He even managed an awkward bow.

Jorah despised the creature in front of them. He was clearly the filth of humanity but they had no legitimate cause to quarrel. Instead, the queen set her offer before him – which he laughed at – then mounted his horse.

“Keep your papers,” he waved her off. “Though a small toll would buy the silence of my ravens.”

“You should know,” Daenerys added, “that if we come down this road and find your soldiers on it I'll make sure that you're the last to die.” Her dragons twitched at the thought of tearing his limbs apart.

“Daenerys Targaryen...” he mulled her name over rancidity as his horse circled. “You not need to keep telling people that you are the queen. They can see it – soon as they see those fucking things.” He raised his eyebrows at the dragons. “Enjoy your ride North. If you feel like mining a bit of dragon glass, I'll cut you a good deal.”

Daenerys' lip curled but Jorah touched her back softly to hold her back.

“He's not the worst person I've met,” she sighed, as Rolland retreated. “But I would prefer to never encounter him again. Is this what the realm is full of? Pretending lords and land-locked piracy? How is _anyone_ to rule such men?” _Tchic-tchik_. She called _Drogon_. The dragon lumbered out of the water but Jorah had to wade in after _Viserion_.

“Don't pretend, Your Grace, that part of you isn't disappointed. I saw the way you looked at that castle and imagined it glowing red like the heart of a furnace.”

“Fantasising about fire and wanting to murder with it are two very different things that my father failed to separate in his fractured mind.”

“I won't fail to separate Rolland's head from his neck if he gives us any trouble,” Jorah assured her.

*~*~*

Darkstar watched the castle flare to life in the distance and shortly after, a pair of shadows take to the darkening sky. It would be foolish to begin a march across unforgiving terrain when the sun was considering its fall so he and the men prepared camp in the mountains.

He remained near the red witch's litter. Several layers of silk and cloth concealed her from view but he could hear Quaithe's whispers through the veil, hissing out beneath her golden mask. _Dothraki_ women crouched nearby. There were many priests who claimed to hear the whispers of the gods. Targaryens had more truth than most. Since their passing, all the realm had to offer were stories of old women frightening children to keep them from the dark.

“Cold?” Arya wedged herself between the Dayne and the fire. The unseasonal cold crept out of the clear skies that had existed weeks without rain. As it was, the queen's army congregated around thousands of tiny fires while they waited for the dragon riders to return. The _Dothraki_ made camp with the _Dornish_ , sharing stories of their violent histories and mythical battles. Some descended into fucking with neither culture having a skerrick of restraint. The remaining _Unsullied_ held back, watching from the edge of the forest – some _keenly_ , others with eyes deep with envy.

“I suppose you are not, coming from the great lands in the North?”

Arya shrugged. “I've been away from the North nearly as long as I was in it,” she replied. Her accent betrayed as much. Yes, it had a Northern base but it had been corrupted by a dozen tongues since then. “There are times I think it was a dream – that it never happened at all.” Partly a lie. There'd always be ice in her blood.

“I doubt that very much,” Darkstar replied, kicking another branch into the fire. “You carry your name boldly across your heart. Very soon, you'll find the North again and slide into the fold of home and _this_ will become the dream. Your bones are destined for the snow.”

Maybe that was why she felt the cold, although she denied it. The ice was a breath of fate. “Are you thinking of _her_?” Arya asked, when the troubled Dayne fell quiet. “The princess. Guess you are. People spend a lot of time thinking about the dead. They don't think about us. The dead. Except if they come back to life. I've seen that too.”

He frowned at the girl. _No._ Though she had a boyish face, Arya Stark was older than a girl – near sixteen if he were to guess. “What do you mean? The dead are dead.”

“Not any more. I saw a priest of R'hllor kiss a man back to life.”

“Liar.”

“Whatever you like. If you come far enough North with the queen you'll see it too. They say my brother died for three days before a Red Priest brought him back. There are other ways for the dead to walk again.” Her mind wandered to the halls of faces, glistening in the torch light. She wondered what face Jaqen H'ghar wore today. Her mind had been reaching back, replaying every moment from _Braavos_ to _Dorne_. He'd saved her from discovery more than once wearing Missandei's face.

“Men aren't meant to come back from death,” Darkstar bristled to her company. Starks were difficult creatures to like. It was the way they looked at you – as though you were a meal. “There is a dangerous place – between the two realms – where restless souls are trapped, wandering forever. To die is a gift. To live is a dream. The only way to be born again is through our children. Like you... Ned Stark all over. And _yes_ , in answer to your question. I think of her. I'll _always_ think of her.”

*~*~*

The dragons landed in the mountains and abandoned their riders before pushing off into the wind to hunt. They snapped at each other, tussling before vanishing from view. Daenerys drifted toward Jorah, rubbing her naked arms against the cold. “It's freezing...” she murmured.

He wished he had something to give her but his plate armour was of little use. It picked up the cold worse than her skin. He remembered what it was like to wear it in the snow – how it burned naked flesh and tore it away. Beyond the wall, it had to be abandoned entirely replaced by thick layers of leather.

They had no torches but the fires of her army were easy to pick in the sparse forest. “It will only become colder from here. One day you will miss the desert heat, _Khaleesi_ , though you scorned it so vehemently.” _Khaleesi_ suited her better than queen.

*~*~*

The fires perished into glowing embers surrounded by bodies. In the fair weather most did not bother with a tent except the queen. Hers was strung between a pair of leaning pines. Their bark frayed the rope and shed insects which, confused, ambled over the silks.

Their pretence bordered on the ridiculous.

Nightly, Queen Daenerys and her Bear performed a dance for the benefit of the army. Talks began at sunset – strategic meetings attended by the generals. These evolved into political talks confined to her council which further still deteriorated into private discussions until only the knight remained. They carried on through dinner, retiring to the queen's tent where neither were seen again until morning. However their intentions began, the result endured.

They lay on the floor, separated by an unfathomable spread of cushions. The queen asleep. _I am watching over her_ , Jorah told himself, as he turned onto his side. Her silver hair was caught behind her while a layer of fur was pulled to her neck. He reached over, running his hand down the wolf fur.

“You are breaking your own rules, ser Jorah...” The queen murmured.

 _So he was._ His hand drifted to a safe distance.

*~*~*

Darkstar wandered to escape the watchful eye of the wolf. The terrain was difficult, riddled with flat boulders and shale which broke away underfoot. He gripped onto the trees, pulling himself over dry creek beds until he found a quiet place to sit.

It was uncommonly cold. He'd travelled these mountains many times at this time of the year and never felt quite so much bite in the air. There was even a layer of mist starting to gather ahead, illuminated by the rising moon.

Truth hit him. The world had fallen quiet. Owls tucked their beaks between layers of down. The thrum of insects suffocated. The _Dothraki_ horses who had been restless all night, stilled. Even _he_ had gone quiet, listening intently to the world.

Something was wrong.

Carefully, he pried himself off the rock and withdrew his curved sword. It caught the moonlight for a moment while he spun slowly, searching the wood for signs of movement. He found none but his shadow. The mist thickened into a fog as he watched. His breath filled the air with clouds of vapour. The camp fires behind faded, obscured by the cold.

His skin crawled.

Quickly as he dared, Darkstar headed back, climbing toward the camp which clawed along the ridge. He did not want to shout in case their army had been followed into the hills by a raiding force – Martell had enemies yet and the Silver Dragon inherited them. It might be nothing. Surely it was nothing. Who would dare attack an army as large as the queen's with a pair of dragons keeping watch? _Who could?_

Darkstar stopped dead.

Ice crawled up the back of his neck. He could feel snow gathering in his long hair and the metal blade in his hand freezing beneath his touch. A sound cracked on the air, splitting it apart. An impending sense of dread gripped his body. _Fear_. True – primal fear. The deepest kind that stole the breath away. It took a hold of his heart, clenching into a fist around it until he felt like he was choking.

He forced himself to turn on the woods. He found a glistening silhouette forged from ice. Nearly eight feet tall – edges glistening like the surface of the sea – and eyes – a pair of sapphires with the sun behind.

It had one arm – the other was severed roughly with strips of purple withered at the wound. A face of ice barely moved as the demon opened its mouth and sent a foul sound on the world. For a moment Darkstar remained perfectly still, staring in awe at the walking myth. _He was dreaming. Another nightmare..._ As the Other approached the cold intensified until it covered his arms with a layer of frost.

Darkstar lifted his sword, swaying it from side to side. He backed away, feeling the ground behind raising toward the camp. He did not know where the creature had come from but it was here to kill them all.

“ATTACK!!!” Darkstar screamed, at the top of his lungs. It was the only word he had time for.

The creature lunged on him at once, weaving through the trees like smoke before it reached for Darkstar's sword with its bare hands. Darkstar swung, clutching the weapon with both hands. Time slowed. His world became the passage of the blade, cutting through the mist. Closer and closer. Ice and steel. The sword shattered into a thousand pieces as it touched the creature's flesh. Darkstar was carried over with the momentum, stumbling to his left with the base of the sword caught in his hands. He gasped at the sudden loss, staring in confusion for a fatal moment. The Other gripped him by the back of his clothes and tossed him through the wood like a bag of seed.

Wind rushed across his body while the blur of the forest passed. He waited for the inevitable – a crunch of his bones against the stomach of a tree – but it never came. Instead, Darkstar landed in a storm of sails which tore apart under his crashing weight. The structure folded inwards like the arms of a Craken, dragging him into the dark and quiet.

Daenerys and Jorah rolled at the last minute, lifting their hands defensively as the entire side of the tent suddenly collapsed. A body hit the cushions before they were all consumed by darkness. Outside, Jorah heard swords drawing. Men running. Fires hissing. _Dothraki_ horses whinnying in panic.

“Dany!” He shouted, moving blindly through the ocean of leather and silk. “Dany!” Cushions. Plates of fruit. Sheets. A warm body. He latched onto her wrist.

“Ser?”

“Take my hand,” Jorah replied. He took his dagger and slashed open the tent, gasping at the fresh, night air. It was immediately replaced with rolling clouds of smoke. Chaos surrounded them. The edge of the forest around the camp had caught alight. Flames ripped up the tree trunks sending out desperate shrills from the birds that lived there. _Dothraki_ were racing for their horses, trying to pull them back from the flames as they bucked and kicked. The _Dornish_ were drunk on wine and sleep, stumbling around camp for their weapons. Their tent had been destroyed by a writhing body, clutching his arm where fresh blood spilled.

“Gerold?” Jorah grabbed him by the chest and pulled Darkstar to his feet, looking the man up and down in shock. “What the bloody hell is going on? Hey!” The Dayne's eyes were elsewhere, focused on the wood where swords were fighting. “Look at me!” The next word out of Jorah's lips was a slap in the face.

“I saw it, in the trees!” Darkstar recovered, standing on his own. The dull throb in his arm went unnoticed. He looked down at the empty handle of his sword that he was still clutching. “A demon made of ice.”

Jorah pried it from his grasp and wiped away the blood. “Only one thing does that to a steel blade.” He turned to the queen. “We have to get you out of here. Drogon – he can fly you to safety.”

“Drogon is hunting.” She replied, sliding a dagger from beneath her robes.

“That'll do no good against what hunts you – better to have both hands. A horse – then. Ride into the Dornish Marches. I will find you there. Go. _Go!_ ”

She nodded and headed immediately for a horse – any horse while Jorah and Darkstar re-grouped. “Which way?” Jorah demanded, unsheathing _Dawn_ while he handed _Snowflake_ to the Dayne. “I don't know how much it will count for but it's one of their weapons.”

Darkstar stared at the white blade, amazed. He could see the cold coming off the edge in a white mist.

They followed the screams, pushing into the woods between roaring arches of flame that had taken hold in the pines. Around them, corpses of the recently dead started to twitch. Their eyes widened as those bodies lifted their heads and sat up, eyes blue as the sea.

“Ser...” Darkstar's voice wavered.

“Fire...” he replied, plucking a log from the ground, thick has his arm. He held it in the fire long enough to set the end alight. Darkstar did the same.

“What are you doing?!” Darkstar tried to pull Jorah away as he touched the edge of his torch onto the clothes of a twitching corpse. “He was still alive!”

If that were true, there would have been screaming. “Not the sort of life you imagine,” Jorah promised, as the body roared into flame. Another sword shattered nearby. They followed it and found a group of soldiers circling the ice demon. Some foolishly held swords. Others did as Jorah and brandished flaming logs. “It's just the one...”

“One _what_?” Darkstar mouthed.

“I'll tell you after we kill it.”

While the men were planning to attack the Other – the dead raised by its horrific magic stumbled closer. They picked the men off one at a time, tearing at their flesh with their bare hands. Their victims were vivisected and themselves brought back into the fight.

Darkstar was first, bounding over a flat rock – skidding down the surface before launching himself with considerable force at the Other's back. His sword was aimed for the flesh and met its mark, sinking into the ice. The sound of a glacier cleaving from the sure deafened the men. The Other spun wildly, throwing Darkstar off before reaching behind for the sword that had already fallen to the ground.

While Darkstar scrambled to retrieve it, Jorah was next, lifting the milkglass blade over his head. He did not get the chance to strike. Cold hands caught his back – pulled him out of step. The dead reached hungrily for his flesh. He fought them off, kicking and swiping until Darkstar held a flame to their faces. When the looked up, fresh from survival, the Other was gone.

“ _Qrugh! skoriot se nopāzma gōntan ziry jikagon?”_ Darkstar fell into his native tongue of High Valyrian. He spun endlessly, searching the mist. Bodies were rising all around them. They'd have to burn the forest to the ground.

“The Queen...” Jorah replied. “It came here for her.”

*~*~*

Daenerys slid her leg over the bare back of the horse and wrapped her arms around its neck. Soldiers ran everywhere, darting between flames while the roar of trees catching fire made the beast buck beneath her.

“Sh – _sh_...” She cooed at it, pressing her weight onto its neck until its front hooves hit the rock. Then she tapped its ribs with her bare feet, startling it into life. The horse lurched forward, heading to the track that wounds its way down the mountain side. A few minutes later they passed beyond the flames and cut into the open where the cold mountain air brushed away the smoke. She faced the moon – the silvery orb hanging over the water with a thousand reflections glistening like tiny moons beneath. Men screamed behind her. Their howls followed her like shadows.

Hands scratched at her back. Bones that weren't there. Tracks of blood seeped through her silks from phantom wounds. _Jorah_. Wherever he was, the dead were upon him.

For a moment, she considered turning back.

There it was.

A pillar of ice blocked her path. The creature made from frozen wastes stalked forward with its single arm hanging at its side. Its eyes glowed, finding light from somewhere within its corpse. Magic swirled in the air, gathering as mist that bled from the ground at its feet.

She kicked her horse sharply, intending to rush the demon. Instead, the horse bucked up wildly, petrified. It reared, higher and higher until finally Daenerys' hands slipped over its mane and she was left tumbling toward the ground which she hit with a _crack_. Her body burned. The horse's hooves pummelled into the dirt either side, stomping wildly – barley missing her flesh. The mare retreated, storming back toward the flames of the camp behind.

Daenerys picked herself off the ground and faced the creature that lived in her nightmares. She has seen its form a thousand times. Night after night – wandering in the snows beyond the wall.

“ _Nyke gīmigon ao..._ I know you... _”_ Daenerys addressed it in High Valyrian as she stalked toward the creature. All this time she had wondered what reaction her flesh would have. Fear? Would her limbs be stitched to her side and heart unable to beat? No. She felt only strength and the fire coiling beneath her skin. She was _made_ to destroy it. _“But you don't know me...”_

If the creature was trying to say something, it left its cracked lips as a rasp. It was a man, entombed by ice and magic, existing somewhere between life and death where not even the gods could reach.

*~*~*

Jorah broke free of the smoke. Below, he saw Daenerys toe-to-toe with the monster of ice. It lumbered toward her, reaching forward with its single hand as it had done to the men. She held her ground. Mist gathering at her feet.

“Run...” he begged her, beneath his breath. “Run...”

Jorah vaulted over a chasm of rock, hit the flat face of another and skidded down the shale. Knots of wood and spined-ferns cut across his legs. He thought of nothing – _saw nothing_ – except the queen bracing herself against the creature.

*~*~*

The back of Daenerys' legs pained with a thousands tiny cuts. In the distance she heard the whisper of her knight's voice, pushed back by the freezing wind. She held the Other in her gaze. It came for her, flexing its silver muscles – twitching fingers about to strike down on her face.

At the last moment, Daenerys lifted her arm, creating a barrier in front of her face. The creature struck – skin to skin – and found itself obliterated.

A thousands shards of ice fell as tears, flooding the stone.

Daenerys remained – a statue to the night.

*~*~*

Hundreds saw the demon massacred at her touch. They watched from their perch, swords dropping in shock, as the queen stepped through the pile of snow at her feet then turned with her unearthly eyes lifting to the army in the hills.

“I am fire made flesh!” Daenerys screamed at the night. _“Iksan va ñellyrty perzys! Anha zin vorsa ki kher!”_ High Valyrian and Dothraki until all her hoards were shouting. She stood before them and roared until the moon itself bowed.

_A god among men._ Every knee found the earth. Every sword laid to rest. The doubting – the opportune – the vengeful and petty – all were made honest men at the feet of the Silver Queen. Even Darkstar felt the breath of the gods visit them upon that hill.  _There was a difference_ , he'd been told all his life,  _between skirmish and war._ He saw the war waiting for them on the other side of dawn.

Ser Jorah, fallen at the edge of the path beneath the rocks, thrust  _Dawn_ into the dirt and used its strength to find his feet. Soot and blood obscured his face, pressed into the cracks. He had witnessed unspeakable things at her hands but never the defiance of a god.

*~*~*

They were stirred back into reality by the ruined bodies of trees falling in the forest, spreading fire from one hilltop to the next. Those that lived packed what they could and fled down the road toward the  _ Dornish Marches _ . Half their horses were already there, seeking refuge for their burns in the cool waters. Daenerys' dragons were drawn back by the flames and circled, fanning them with each swipe of their wings. Jorah and Darkstar took teams of soldiers and patrolled the edge of the woods. They waited for the undead to rise and flee only to hurl their corpses back into the furnace.

When it was done, they counted their loss.

“How many?” The queen demanded, while her ladies peeled away the silk dress from the wounds on her legs and back. Jorah winced, she did not.

“Nearly forty,” he replied. “Five still missing and a dozen horses that ran into the woods. I have an inventory being made of the supplies but we were fortunate, it could have been a lot worse.”

“Worse?” she whispered, brushing away the women. “One of those creatures –  _ one _ – alone and severely injured took forty men?  _ Hundreds _ more await and how many thousands of their ghoulish soldiers?” Her hand shook as it curled around the base of the goblet. She sipped the wine, letting it coat the back of her throat. There she held it, relishing the spice and smoke. “How did it get here? Everything we know about those creatures says that the great Northern Wall keeps them from the realm. What the hell is it doing prowling the edge of Dorne?”

Jorah shook his head. “I can not say. It does not make sense. We do not know if these Others die of their own accord-”

“How could they? They are already dead...”

“Exactly. It might be from a time before The Wall.” Jorah shook his head. “Though I don't see how it could roam the world unnoticed. All we can do is hope that it is alone.”

_Hope? You bring me hope?_ She thought darkly.

The queen's bloodied clothes had been left in a pile in the corner of the tent, waiting to be burned. Jorah's eyes settled on them. The queen bled for him and there was nothing he could do about it. She caught his gaze lingering there and returned it with a scornful look. “How am I to head into battle,” he said, “knowing what I do?”

“You must have  _ faith _ , ser...” She replied. “That the gods have another purpose for us.”

_ Faith? She demands faith? _ He wondered.

“The gods  _ have  _ a purpose,” he replied, shaking his head in hopeless submission, “and that purpose is  _ chaos _ . Varys knows it. Tyrion's played into its hands once before. You are about to bring it to King's Landing.”

*~*~*

They could not remain on the narrow strip between the marshes. The thrum of insects attacked the flesh in clouds of noise. Smoke from the burning hilltops sank with the cold and suffocated the lands, mingling with the fog until it was all one wretched stench.  _ Nightsong _ became a beacon on the road, burning to their left like a star as their army marched North.

###  **KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS**

The doors on the _Sept of Baelor_ were nailed shut, covered in thick boards and reinforced with iron bands. Its stained glass windows were all smashed in letting the rain thrash on the marble floors. Another storm, passing the city in a nightly fuck as if the Storm God himself were visiting his whore.

Sparrows knelt in circles, praying at dark halls. They tried not to hear the thunder shaking what was left of their fortress. Parts of the city remained under their control but not _Aegon's High Hill_ or _Visenya's Hill_ where their temple stood. The collapsed ruins of the Dragonpit in the North had become their sanctuary. They'd smashed open the bronze doors, stepped over the bones of dragons and fortified themselves there. The Northern quadrant of the city extending the length of the West became their domain while the royal house held the ports to the East and the Tyrell's the Southern roads.

_King's Landing_ had become a city divided by faith. Fuelled by jealousy and vacuums of power. People were crucified in the streets and left hanging as feasts for the gulls.

“Ready?” One of the Sparrows whispered, shouldering a sack.

It was the depths of both the night and the storm. The High Sparrow dragged the hood of his cloak down. Beneath the ragged cloth he was an old man. Only power born of jealousy fired his heart, pushing him out the narrow passage beneath the chapel and onto the street. The rain buried the stone in several inches of water. It stank of filth and death where rats swam by and all the hell of the violent mob rushed down hill around their ankles. They'd have to wade through it, passing from one dragon hill to the next.

The sky was black except for violent cracks of light that came and went. Rain approached in sheets, visible as grey walls that broke over the buildings and stole every sound from the air except the pounding of the clouds. Ahead, in the North of the city, perched the Dragonpit. The High Sparrow marvelled at its ruinous claws of stone, clasping at the storm.

*~*~*

King Tommen stood on the balcony overlooking the city. The Northern and Western areas had fallen into shadow, lapping like the hungry tide toward the reclaimed East. His council was right – the Faith Militant were a plague upon the realm spreading fear and violence, throwing his people into self-righteous poverty.

Fighting street to street was hopeless. The sickness was in their minds. The path back to civilisation lay gilded with the heads of every last Sparrow.

“My king...” Cersei whispered, sidling out from the cover of the stone archways. The city lay stretched at their feet and to their left, the endless void of _Blackwater Bay_. Now she knew how its name came about. When the storms arrived it descended into darkness. A nightmare between the gods. There were storms like this when she had first married Robert. She'd dragged herself outside and curled up in the rain to calm her despair. “Come out of the storm.”

“Am I not a Stormlord?” The boy replied, his golden hair plastered across his forehead. The world was cast into a violent stab of light as a shard of the heavens forked down from the sky and connected with a ship in the harbour. The mast exploded as the lightning flashed three times then died. Around them, the air tore apart.

Cersei clapped her hands over her ears as the thunder growled, ducking behind the wall in the face of its violence. Their petty wars were nothing compared to the gods. She reached up – latching onto the stone and felt it tremble in sympathy.

The rain turned her make-up into rivers of black and white. Soot and ash, mixed with oil stuck in her eyes. “Tommen! Tommen – come inside!” She grasped at his robes. The sheer force of the wind pushed her back – filling her gaping sleeves as though they were a ship's sails.

When her boy king finally turned he looked like one of the drowned men, crawled out onto the bank. “You said you had a way to flush the Faith out of the Sept.”

Cersei struggled to stand. “Come back inside!”

“What are you planning, mother?”

Another burst of light. A fork of fire hitting a building in the city. The world lit up for a moment and then vanished. “Tommen...”

“It's all right...” he turned back to the violence. “I already know. I've been waiting for you to tell me.” Tommen tried to imagine the ocean of lurid green wildfire beneath the sept. One stray gasp of fire and the heart of the Faith would be evaporated. “Would you have done it with my wife still inside?” He faced his mother, nearly as tall as her. “Well? How far might you go – far enough to murder a queen?”

Cersei backed away from the storm, seeking shelter in the arms of stone. The king was forced to follow for his answer. Lamplight curved warmly around them. Oceans of water dripped from their clothes. “Of course not...” she replied, lifting her hand to her son's cheek. He shrunk away from her touch. “You love your queen. That is honourable – something worth fighting for. I am capable of many things but not destroying your happiness.”

“I _want_ to believe you – I do...”

“Then do...”

Tommen could see her lies as easily as the lightning in the storm. He wondered if his father saw as clearly as him. Tommen did everything he could to keep Jaime Lannister in the North, away from his mother's influence. Re-directing her letters – burning his reports. His mother was dangerous on her own – Tommen feared what she might do with an army at her back. _Give my family a little more time_ , his wife had begged. “See that you take more care with the queen,” Tommen stated plainly. “She is carrying your grandson.”

###  **BLACK WATER BAY – SOUTH OF DRAGONSTONE**

The ship listed wildly in the storm. Daario slipped and smacked onto the deck as the world around him creaked violently. He started to slide with one edge of the ship curving into the waves. He flailed – reaching blindly until his arms wrapped around a protrusion of wood. For all his life he held on against the driving rain as his body parted from the deck. He hung there. Either side the grey wave curved, taking the ship with it like driftwood. In the howling wind he heard the men scream – his voice amongst them. Then suddenly the wave passed and the ship smacked back into the water sending everything into the air.

He slipped, flying five feet before gravity dragged him back, slamming him into the deck. Just as soon as he landed another wave rolled in, tilting the ship the other way this time. And so it began again.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing!” Daario screamed at a huddle of pirates that were meant to be attending the sails.

“Praying!” One of his men replied, rolling across the deck – swept off his feet. “Prayin' for their lives.”

Daario threw himself from mast to mast, crossing the ship with sheets of water tearing at his skin. “You don't need your hands to pray!” He grabbed each man and dragged him back to their posts. “Get on those fucking sails!”

He knew there were men in the water. He'd seen them go over. They bobbed in the rolling black, waiting for the gods of the deep to come for them. It was only the weight in their hulls that kept them steady. Without the treasure and weapons they'd have been scuttled hours ago.

Daario knew the waters around  _Dragonstone_ . They were cursed with rage. He thought of the ships beneath. The rotting wood. The carpet of bones. The filthy serpents of his childhood horrors.

“Captain – _Captain!_ ”

Daario spun around. Their ship had turned and now faced down the nose of the waves. They had climbed into the air without realising and reached the crest. The other side fell away and now they started to tip towards the infinite.

“Hold fast!” Daario shrieked. Every hand lunged to the rail, wrapping ropes around their bodies as the vessel teetered on oblivion. For one perfect moment the storm fell quiet. Daario could have sworn he heard the gentle pelt of rain on the glass of their last lantern. The flame swung. Extinguished. The world shifted underfoot and suddenly their boat had wings.

 


	74. Waking Stone Dragons

 

 

###  **DRAGONSTONE – BLACKWATER BAY**

Even the shores were black. Cursed by dragonfire. Wars. Death. Flames that lived beneath the sea and set pools of shallow water to boil. Mist and smoke dragged over the Eastern beaches, souring the air with the stench of sulphur. Blow-holes roared to life, thrusting streams of heated water into the sky like land-locked whales.

The late King Stannis had built jetties that stretched into the deep water where the pirates birthed their heavily laden ships. Wood ended where the black glass began. Miles and miles of it, crunching underfoot. The castle of _Dragonstone_ was embraced by the wretched shadow of the _Dragonmount_ behind. Its violent rises of sheer black cliffs had been forced up from the depths of hell beneath the water. New flanks were added yearly and day by day it inched a little higher toward the storm. Snow graced the upper ridges. It was so tall that the weather curved around it like a rock in the stream, coating one side with an endless deluge that funnelled into springs beneath the Keep.

The pirates quieted upon hearing growls within the rock. _Dragons,_ they thought, _trapped in the mountain_.

A scattering of Lannister soldiers held the castle. Fat and drunk, they ambled between the snarling stone dragons that watched over the heart of Valyria's conquest. Panic lurched them to life when they saw the fleet flying black sails. They boarded themselves in, hissing unwelcome prayers to gods that would rather see them dead. It was the work of an hour to flush them out and let the pirates indulge their hunger for violence. Daario showed no interest, letting the men do as they wished while he scouted the castle. Remnants of Stannis' occupation lay in the rooms and halls. He reached out, tearing a Baratheon banner from the wall as he passed.

He came upon the throne room and felt a wash of familiarity. It had the feel of _Pyke_. Dreary stone walls that sapped light from the arches of rock. The spray of salt from the raging waters. Smoke, forever trapped within the halls and carpets of sea-grass made into mats. Daario's eyes lifted to the dragon created from stone, curling around the throne. Its fangs were black. Its eyes, black. Scales of black and a long, black tail that broke free of its rock confines and stood freely in an elegant curl at the edge of the room. He laid a hand on it, following it back to the wall. Dark rubies had been pressed into its scales, each formed into a tear drop. It was beautiful in its morbid devotion. A shrine to blood and fire. The seat of rage from which a continent fell.

Daario climbed the steps to the seat cut directly into the rock. He turned and lowered himself onto the throne. There was a warmth in it, born of the mountain behind whose constant trembles he felt under his fingertips.

“Captain?” One of his men entered. Every one of them was bloodied from the storm that nearly took their lives. “The men were wondering what you want us to do?”

“Search the palace,” he replied. “There's a tunnel leading into the mountain. Find it and where it ends, conceal our treasure. We'll hold this island until the end.”

The pirates were embolden by the terror of their new home. Of all the wretched places they had sailed, the horror of _Dragonstone_ emerged from the sea like a dead thing. A truly fearsome stronghold. Even now, as Daario brushed his thumb against the throne, he wondered if he'd have the strength to step aside when the Silver Queen arrived.

###  **KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS**

The thunder barely managed a soft snore within the depths of the _Red Keep_. Its violence was replaced by the rush of water, tearing through the rock on its way to the sea. Rats, trapped in the deluge, screamed as they were swept through the bars. Olenna felt pity for them. What were they but rats caught in the storm?

“There is one thing that I know of you, Nestoris...” Olenna waited for him to twist in the torchlight and set his deep eyes upon her. He looked like one of those frightened rats. “Your balls are intact.”

For a humourless man he found a shadow of amusement. “Is it true – that you fear no one?”

“I find very little point to fear but if I did, I'd hardly care to show it.”

A true smile. “I'll not die on that island,” he assured the rose-monarch. “He is not my first pirate king. Half the lords in the East are pirates by your law. The rest are worse. Bastards of the sand. Horselords and Bonemen. Men that fuck goats and those that claim to live in the sea. As long as there is coin there is business and I am, first and foremost, a man of business.”

“Take care, you sound like one of Baelish's brothels. He'll take coin from anything that moves.”

“And spend it on the gods-know-not-what.” Tycho drew his hood back over his head and prepared for the rain. The storms were breaking and his ship, should it still have a mast, waited to sail for _Dragonstone_. “When I return, we will speak again.”

*~*~*

The Lannisters had no love for their gardens. Built by the Targaryens – tended to by their cultivated children and indulged by the Baratheon – they had been left to ruin. Tommen was too young to keep a watchful eye on his castle and Cersei had more pressing concerns.

Olenna reached out to one of the hedges, letting the wilted leaves brush against her cracked old skin. Too much water. Not enough heat. Ripped from its home in the _Dornish Watergardens_ and forced to struggle in the cooler air. You could not force love where there was none. Poor thing. It would never flower.

She found her grandchildren several tiers down, catching the sun in the half-moon garden that overlooked the water. Arches of purple-leaved trees shed over the pavement while a chorus of flowering shrubs had their petals stripped in last night's storm and now lay as a carpet around them.

“And what is this, hmm?” Olenna asked, sitting beside them. Loras looked toward the stone at his feet, lost in memories of past love. That Baratheon child, Renly, had ruined Loras' spirit, taking part of it to the grave. Curse that foolish boy.

Margaery draped her arm over her brother's shoulders, caressing the fresh scars where his ear had been. A new fringe obscured the branding burned into his forehead by the Faith Militant but his eyes were still as beautiful as clear water. Olenna sighed heavily. She _loved_ her grandchildren.

“Loras has decided to take a walk in the gardens with me today,” Margaery replied, as though that were some kind of achievement.

“So I see.” The world around them dripped. Below, pieces of broken ships washed onto the shore. “But where is his tunic? His sword? The jewels of his family?”

“Give him time, Grandmother...”

Olenna hushed Margaery with a lifted hand. “Don't encourage him, dear.” She moved that hand down to rest on Loras' knee. “I want you to go back to your room, bathe, dress in your best clothes and prepare – tonight the King has ordered a feast to honour your sister and her happy news.”

“A feast?” Rasped Loras. “While the city starves?”

“A modest affair to be sure but one which you will attend looking like the heir to Highgarden – not something we found washed up at the edge of the Keep.”

“Grandmother!” Margaery gasped.

“You think that is shocking?” Olenna turned on her. “We are _beyond_ words. Swords follow words and when they cut the blood runs hot. Do not pretend you haven't heard reports from the city. Women murdering their own children to stop them starving into piles of bone. Corpses left hanging from the walls of the sept with gulls making nests of their ribs. The depths of the Dragonpit – woken to life with fires where the Red Priests are purified in the flame. Do not imagine for one minute that these things are not coming for you.”

Loras kicked the dying petals at his feet. “I don't care -” His hands rose to his face which stung from the force of his grandmother's slap. Olenna hit him again, harder this time. “Stop!”

“Hurts, does it?” Olenna replied.

“Grandmother – _really_ – Loras is – argh!”

Olenna slapped her also, twice as hard as Loras for she had twice the sense. “Listen to me _very carefully_. If you want to run home we do so today. We leave and we hope that the Lannister army doesn't have enough time to pay us a visit before King's Landing descends into war. If, by some miracle, Highgarden survives you will raise that child of yours as a nameless Flower and never again dream of a crown. Mmm... I did not think so. You've wanted to be Queen since you could toddle around with a tiara made of leaves.”

She dragged her grandchildren to their feet and led them over to the balcony. Beyond, the waters of _Blackwater Bay_ rolled in, scattered with ships broken free of their moorings during the storm.

“Within the week, black sails will fill that harbour. Filthy pirates, lustful and drenched in rage will wash upon the docks and ravage their way across the city. A few weeks after that, their sails will be replaced by dragon wings and _that_ will be the end of the lion's roar.” She took Margaery's hands. “There is a case to be made for Tommen's survival but do not get too attached to the boy. The new queen will wish him dead.”

“New queen...”

“Yes, my dear. The Targaryen _will_ be queen. Whether it takes a week of politics or an hour of fire.” This time, Olenna took Loras by the shoulder, pushing his hair away from his ruined ear in a way of making him face his reality. “And as a young queen, she will need a husband.” He flinched away from her but Olenna held fast. “A young husband with a powerful family. Daenerys Stormborn has no quarrel with us. She is the future, the Lannister's are the past. The crown passes from one child to the next but we keep our hold of it and our lives. Once you've tasted royalty the only way to leave it is in death.”

Her grandchildren were shocked. Furious and jealous of each other. “But _I am the queen_!” Margaery hissed. “I am carrying the king's child!”

“If you stand there and say that to Daenerys Targaryen, you'll be queen of the ashes, my dear. If the pair of you want to stand there, walk in the garden and pretend this end is not coming – _that's too bad_ because the world isn't going away. Alive or dead – decide now.”

Margaery nodded through her tears and even Loras pulled his eyes up from the ground to meet his grandmother.

“Good...” She wrapped her arms around them both, pulling them closer into her embrace. “Save your prayers, dear.” Olenna added, as Margaery whispered something to the gods. “I used to pray to the Maiden – tend gardens in her honour – weep nightly that she'd protect me. Then I was betrothed to a Targaryen boy when I was nine so I prayed to the Warrior that I might survive. In the end, I married your grandfather and learned it was better to pray to the Crone than waste time on foolery. I read scrolls from the Citadel. Raised children to be honest and lived by all the godly rules and yet my husband rode to his death hawking simply because he did not have the sense to keep his eyes ahead. I prayed to the Stranger. One day, while revelling in the pointlessness of it all, I realised that I had been praying to myself and not a whisper in the sky.”

###  **CASTLE BLACK – THE WALL**

“Oy!” Commander Thorne shoved one of his men against the surge of ice. The Night's Watchman was startled from sleep, pawing at the fresh snow before clambering back to his feet to face Thorne's furious face. “The _fuck_ is that, then?” He asked, when the man was capable of following his eye-line to the tower of smoke billowing on the other side of _The Wall_.

“S-smoke?” He replied, hazarding a closer look. “Fire, by the looks.”

“Ay, a fire. On the Wildling side of The Wall.” Thorne paused to see if that was enough of an explanation. It wasn't. “The Wilding's are all on _this side_ of The Wall.”

“Oh...”

“So who's lighting fires at our gates?”

“Dunno...”

Thorne stared at his man. Forget demons made of ice. Humanity's true end was coming on the swords of men like this where breathing was a battle of wits. “Well _fookin' sake_ go take a look then, yeah?”

First dragons now this. From up here Thorne could see the trail of Southerners inching closer – to what end, who knew? Every lost soul in the realm was suddenly on their way to man this lump of ice and bring a bit of purpose to their meaningless hours in the sun. Thorne was in the unique position to appreciate the true nature of _Castle Black_. It was a slaughter house.

*~*~*

Dacey Mormont lay beside the fire she'd created, watching the flames catch amongst the dry branches and make smoke of the pine needles. She tilted her head, casting her gaze to the perfect expanse of blue above. Everything she had was put into the fire. If the tiny blemishes on the top of _The Wall_ did not see the smoke then she was lost. Dacey did not have the strength to walk to another castle and even if she did this was the only one manned by the Night's Watch.

She slipped in and out of consciousness. Sometimes she was in the snow – cocooned by the cold. Then she'd open her eyes and find herself perched by the ocean with an unfamiliar city rearing up behind. Salt crusting in her feathers. Roaring flames in the sky and a slither of red creeping out.

Suddenly, she was being dragged across the snow, picked up by her feet. She let her arms fall by her side – offered no protest as they were pulled behind her head with the motion. Whether it was a wolf or a man or a creature of ice, Dacey was beyond knowing. Flecks of ice hit her face. They melted as the sunlight gave way to a shadow.

“Ain' look like no Wildling...” One of the men said, hoisting the body into his arms once they entered the tunnel of ice. Others waited for him at the gate, lowering it with suspicions looks toward the forest. It slammed back into the ice. Torches lit the rest of the passage. Several were missing, torn off in the last great battle.

“Is it even alive?” Another of the men asked, closing another gate. There were three of the iron things blocking the passage and another two in the process of being built. Failing that, the current plan was to blow the whole fucking tunnel to hell and let the ice keep the dead out.

“Ay it's been movin',” he replied. “Takin' it to the Lord Commander so he can 'ave a look.”

*~*~*

What used to be mud had frozen into an uneven nightmare. Crossing the courtyard in the centre of _Castle Black_ claimed men every hour, chipping away at their pride as they were laid flat in a pile of armour and black fur.

Lord Commander Thorne held open the door as his men laid the body on wide table in the centre of his office. He nodded at them to close the door and stoke the fire – coax a bit of warmth into the room which seemed determined to freeze over before Winter.

“Alive – the gods must fancy this one,” he said, as the woman shifted.

It took them the rest of the afternoon and half the night to warm her up enough so that she could sit. They left her quiet – sipping pine tea and stew. Every passing moment brought her closer to life until finally she turned to the Lord Commander, who kept watch from the back of the room writing letters, and addressed him.

“Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, I presume?” Dacey began, her accent heavily seated in the North. She was in her fifties and wild as the mountains beyond _The Wall_. Thorne would think twice before lifting a sword in her direction. “You are not my first,” she added, catching his amusement. “My uncle gave me a sterner greeting than you.”

She had stunned Thorne to the extent that he forgot about his quill. It dripped a devastating pool of ink over the letter on his desk before he realised and set it into its holder.

Dacey's weathered features cracked into a smile as she recognised the man behind the table. It was difficult to tell them apart with their determination to conceal themselves in layers of black. “Alliser... is it?” She asked, to which he startled a second time. “I thought a Northerner bettered you a few wars ago? Is that why you've skulked to The Wall? Few end up here by choice. It does not matter why we are here, only that we _are_. Once you take, 'The Black' the past becomes a story. That's what he used to say...”

“Your uncle?” Commander Thorne took a longer look at the woman. Dark grey hair curled past her shoulders with a violent streak of white, several inches wide cutting between the layers. Her eyes were as pale as snow and her skin bleached of its colour. Despite this, the woman was stronger than most of his men and half a foot taller. A bear of a woman if ever there was. “Commander Jeor Mormont was your uncle?”

Dacey nodded. “Your presence tells me that he has left to meet his gods...”

Thorne dipped his head. “Ay, he has. With honour.”

“He never did fancy growing old.” Sadness clung to her for a moment as she sipped her tea. It vanished in the flames. “A woman in Castle Black used to cause a stir but I see you have not only women but Freefolk too. The castle is overrun with life since the last time I sat here.”

Thorne edged closer, sinking into the chair opposite the Mormont. “Lady Dacey Mormont, must be...” He realised. “I 'eard the Lord Commander speak of a bear wandering the North. He meant you. Why?”

“I wanted to be a Ranger,” she smiled sadly into her tea. “That was not option for noble ladies at the time – though it is a stretch in anyone's mind to call a Mormont a 'Lady'. I went ranging on my own instead. Turns out that was safer. I've seen a lot of your men butchered over the years. They make too much noise, you see, it carries on the ice.”

“How long were you out there?” He leaned in, fascinated by the utter wilderness pressed between her features. “We have parties that go out, weeks – sometimes months...”

“When I left, there was a war coming between dragons and stags. I never stayed long enough to see it through.”

“Then – then you don't know...”

“That my family is dead? I know. _I felt it_. When you are nowhere the wars of the realm feel even more pointless. Why do we die for golden crowns – does anyone know?” Dacey returned her gaze to the flame before asking, “Do any of them live?”

“Far as I know – Lady Lyanna Mormont – your youngest sister,” he added, when he realised Lyanna had not yet been born when Dacey left, “leads Bear Island. She is South, fighting alongside the Starks. There were skirmishes in the Northern lands but Winter is coming. Eyes look further North – to here. The chaos outside is caused by the constant stream of arrivals and those we offered sanctuary to. You'd be Lady of Bear Island yourself if they learned the truth.”

Dacey did not have the heart to ask after her cousin. Instead, she set her cup down and found her feet. “There are ways into this castle you are unaware of,” she said. “Passages through the ice. If you intend to stay here and fight, let me help you secure the fort.”

*~*~*

_Nothing_ had changed.  _Castle Black_ was locked in a moment of time. Aeons came and went at its gates but left only another layer of snow behind. Dacey changed into Night's Watch armour except for her cloak which was made of chestnut fox fur gifted by the Freefolk. She plaited her hair, decorating it with tiny silver pins that caught the torch flames.

Thorne was enthralled. He followed her into the tunnels of ice below the castle. They were a maze which narrowed if left unused. The ice was always creeping in, suffocating... During the long Summer, some of the larger tunnels had started to melt. The drip of water had transformed into rows of stalactites that crowded the ceiling hanging like fangs in a dragon's jaw. Then, deeper, the ice gave way to pale wood.

Alliser stopped and lowered his torch. Their halos of light and milky shadows were all that he could see. “Is this Weirwood?”

“Bloody miles of it,” she replied. “The whole damn wall, if you ask me.”

They ducked under a bower of roots, thick with ice. Pearl bones trapped in a silent ocean. The passageway narrowed. The flames from their torches pressed against the walls searching for air. Finally, a rush of cold air extinguished the fire and immediately they stepped out into the daylight on the other side of the wall.

“By every one of the seven fucking gods...” Alliser swore, with the crunch of snow beneath his boots. “There's nothin' stopping those fucks from getting in.”

“Nothing except magic...” Dacey replied. “Everyone at The Wall has heard the stories. There is more than several hundred feet of ice keeping the dead on this side. Whomever created this monster wove veils of magic into its foundations. There are places like this, scattered all through the Lands of Always Winter. The Freefolk knew where to find some of them. The Children of the Forest still shelter in enchanted caves. Magic did no good against the Wildling incursions because it was never meant to keep them out.”

“If magic keeps the dead army out then why are you so worried about these tunnels?”

Dacey turned on the Lord Commander. “I have seen magic _break_ ,” she whispered. “It is not infallible. Far from it. The slightest breeze can knock it down. When it is gone, all we'll have left is this bloody ice.”

He watched her strut around in the snow. Alliser could pick a dozen men at random from his ranks and watch them cower by the passage. Bravery like that only came from one place. “Lady Mormont...” he asked carefully, joining her on the stretch of open snow that ran between _The Wall_ and the forest. “Would you consider joining our watch – as a guest, of course. A general.”

“You could not be rid of me if you wished,” she assured him. “Though you are going to need real weapons, Lord Commander, if you intend to face the dead and live.”

*~*~*

Alliser traced the edge of the blade. Her sword was rough, poorly sculpted but sharp enough to slice his finger. It was short, wide and made from obsidian that looked almost like sea-glass in the light. All of her blades were the same. Black shards in steel holds.

“Where did you get these?” he asked, picking each one up in reverence. They felt old.

“Found them,” Dacey replied, shifting her cloak to reveal a stone necklace with inlaid runes. “Blades like these are scattered all over the far North. I've found them in caves, snow fields, corpses, abandoned villages... Common steel is useless.”

“We have _some_ dragonglass but no enough to arm the men I have let alone those on their way.”

“Dragonstone is built on it,” Dacey replied. “Bear Island had a trade arrangement with the Targaryens hundreds of years ago. If the island is still there, so is the obsidian.”

“It's at the other end of the kingdom...” Alliser trailed off. “I'm not even sure who owns it.”

“Find out... You have ravens, don't you?”

###  **DRAGONSTONE – BLACKWATER BAY**

Daario watched the hoard of treasure stacked inside the mountain. The walls of the room were warm to the touch, more like a cave than a palace vault. Sweat and smoke filled the air. Gentle vibrations rippled underfoot. Daario stalked to the entrance when they were finished and nodded at the vast wealth. There was enough here to buy a kingdom. More treasure than the pirates had ever imagined and now they had it, they could not touch it. Daario had pledged the wealth to his Silver Queen.

It did not matter. This was capital. There was plenty more gold where they were headed.

He returned to _Dragonstone_ palace and wandered the balconies, making friends with the twisted stone dragons that lingered at every turn. Some of them towered overhead, others were the size of gulls – caught in a motionless dance. Each one was unique as though they'd been alive.

“A ship, Captain,” one of his men pointed to the horizon. It came from the South. “Either they are very brave or very stupid.”

“Perhaps they are a friend...” Daario offered.

“Pirates do not have friends.”

Daario slapped his sailor warmly on the shoulder. “We do now. Go – find out who that is.”

*~*~*

Tycho Nestoris steeled himself as the volcano emerged from the thick sea fog. What he first thought were dark storm clouds transformed into the summit of _Dragonmount_. It was a filthy surge of rock and smoke, pulled from the depths of _Blackwater Bay._

“Around to the jetty!” He instructed the captain, who seemed far than entranced by the idea of mooring beside a vast fleet of pirates. A handful of gold convinced him otherwise and the ship made its final turn toward the island.

*~*~*

He presented a facade of steel to the pirates which lined the jetty – each more fearsome than the last. They were from all over, a real bastard mix. Tycho wondered what sort of pirate captain had managed to unite them under one banner or if it was simply a matter of survival as the world crumbled.

One of them waited for him on the black beach. This one was bald with a thick monocle edged in brass. Its chain was attached to a maroon shirt embroidered with highly stylised elephants from _Zabhad_. His dark skin and white eyes gleamed curiously.

“Our Captain wishes to meet the one who sails to our harbour,” the sailor said.

Tycho did not have a choice, bordered on all sides by pirates who marched him into the monstrous castle.

The throne room was a vast chasm of black stone with walls coated in cob webs from decades of disrepair. Men fashioned new lanterns, shedding another halo of light with every one that burst to life. Water was brought from the sea to fill the shallow salt pools in the floor. Banners were unfurled over the walls, each one brandishing a snarling red dragon. Targaryen banners... In a pirate den.

He came face to face with the Pirate Captain _and laughed_. Tycho could not contain himself. The man draped over the _Dragonstone_ throne had aged in the years since they'd last quarrelled but _never_ did he imagine they'd meet again.

“Leave us...” Daario instructed his men, who did as commanded, closing the rotting doors of the hall.

“You know,” Tycho began, moving through the hall, “for a while there you had me truly worried. Oh yes, properly concerned. A pirate hoard in charge of the Targaryen heartland – it is a thing of legend – or it will be, if there is anyone left alive to write about it.”

“Poetic, to be sure...” Daario replied, letting the banker approach. He had not forgotten their last meeting. It jaded every thought he'd had of _Braavos_ since.

“I honestly thought you'd be lying under the sea by now. Another Greyjoy, off to terrorise the world, each less ambitious than the last... Your bother came to me first with wild offers of glory and riches if I could extend him enough to cover a fleet. I told him the same thing as you. _The Iron Bank does not endorse piracy._ ”

“Indeed. I remember. An interesting lie. What was the real reason you turned us down?”

“Greyjoys are a bad investment. How many centuries have you had on that rock, raping up and down the edge of Westeros? More than enough, we wager, to have amassed a sizeable fortune. The fact that you have not tells us everything we need about your financial management.”

“Things have changed, I have no need of the Iron Bank any more.” Daario shifted on his throne, far more impressive than any seat in that barbaric monstrosity of marble he'd visited a lifetime ago. “I doubt you sailed here to reminisce.”

“No. I came to see the Pirate Captain with an offer from a mutual friend. If you would permit me...”

*~*~*

“Captain?” His man leaned against the balcony, adjusting his eyeglass.

“Say whatever it is that you came here to say...”

Eli Lugg scoffed. He _always_ spoke his mind. Ain't _no one_ who could stop him. Not even the Captain. “Can't help but notice,” he began, “that the banker just offered to pay us to invade King's Landing and kill a bunch of Sparrows...”

“That he did.”

“Weren't we gonna do that anyways?”

Daario nodded. “Mm-hmm and now we'll have some gold to show for it. What? Do not look at me so. The queen never expressly prohibited us from profiting in this endeavour.”

“Not sure she sanctioned it either.”

“Daenerys Stormborn should expect it. We are _pirates_ after all.”

###  **KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS**

Queen Margaery clasped one of the large vases of flowers in her room, lifted it from the mantle and launched it into oblivion. It crashed into her door, smashing apart in a storm of water and petals. Its death was accompanied by a scream. Her soul expelled through that howl. All the rage and frustration channelled onto the air. She took hold of a chair and tossed it aside – then a statue, a pile of books, a phial of ink – it all met the same end at her hand.

Her tears dripped freely from her cheeks until she joined the broken things on the floor.

All the shit – _for nothing_. Three husbands, now a child. Imprisonment. Torture. She'd suffered it all for the Crown but without it, what was the point? How could she step aside like none of it mattered and hand it to her brother who _never_ shared her dreams? She couldn't. _She couldn't_... Margaery wept.

She did not hear her king. Tommen carefully pushed open the door to the crunch of broken pottery. He stepped through the puddle of water and oil, flushing pink with a cup of wine. The queen had collapsed in the centre of the room as a wreck, shaking and sobbing.

“Margaery... Margaery...” he called, as he raced to her side. He was dressed in all his finery for the feast tonight.

Her husband's gentle touch made her howls louder. Renly loved her brother and so there was no danger of affection. Joffrey was a monster. Tommen? Well he might have been something more but now the only future he had lay beneath the stone in the great sept.

“No – _no_!” She pushed Tommen away.

“We – we have a feast to attend, in your honour.” He tried, kneeling with her. Gently, he reached for her chin and turned her face back to him. “Your handmaidens came to me. They were in such a state – I did not believe...” Tommen had never seen her break at anything. She was his strength.

Margaery wanted to tell him the truth but looking into his eyes she found _a Lannister_. He would always be one, no matter how much he wished to be a Baratheon king. “I – am sorry – my lord... My king... I was afraid but now I am all right...” She gripped onto his shoulders, letting him help her to stand.

“I heard that carrying a child can send women a little mad,” he meant it gently, now cupping her cheek. “I will let your ladies in. This will all be gone by the time we return from the feast. I promise.”

_Yes, this will all be gone_ ... Margaery thought darkly.

###  **BONEWAY – OUTSIDE WYL**

Ser Jorah Mormont reached up toward the stormy sky, extending his arm in ready for the set of black claws that latched onto the leather arm band. The raven dug in, landing dutifully with a letter tied around its ankle. Jorah ran his finger down the back of its head to the sound of soft chirps.

“What has you so enthralled?” The queen asked later, while her knight read intently. They were on horseback, lumbering alone the rocky path that curled around an endless series of mountains. Occasionally it dipped toward the East and they were gifted with a glimpse of the water.

Before replying, Jorah moved his horse closer to hers. “Turns out our prospective friend has pre-empted our arrival...” he replied. “The Tyrells have reached out to your pirate lord. That should make things easier for Varys and Tyrion when they arrive. At the very least, we know they are interested in the proposition.”

“It is far from a foregone conclusion, ser,” she warned him. “A lot can happen between now and our arrival.”

“I merely said that it was hopeful,” he defended, passing her the letter so that she might read it for herself. “On the other matter – I have written to my family in the North but I fear it will be a week at least before we hear a reply. The merchants say the snows are falling heavy.”

“Winter...” Daenerys whispered. “You Northerns always say that it is coming...”

“Starks mostly. Bears do not say much of anything.”

Daenerys looked across her shoulder with a dazzling grin that forced him to look away. Mormonts were famous for their lack of humour but Daenerys suspected that they were simply misunderstood. “We best send horses ahead,” she added, to aid in his recovery. “So that the poor town does not take fright at our arrival and ask the Martells to march in front as proof we are friends.”

###  **WYL – DORNE**

The stunning, warm _Sea of Dorne_ had an unfamiliar colour to it. Shallow, based in pure white sand and free of weed, its water turned to sapphire whenever the sun rose, which in _Dorne_ , was most days. Marwyn revelled in the view, clutching the edge of the ship as they sailed toward the castle and its modest port. _Wyl_ looked as though it were built from bone but that was only the natural bleaching of the limestone walls. It reared up over the water with a terrifying sea cave hollowed out beneath.

“You have to appreciate the beauty,” Marwyn insisted, as Gilly stood beside him. “If we do not pause to admire the world then there is no point to saving it. That is what we are doing...” he added softly. “At least, in Tarly's mind. I have never seen a more unlikely hero in a war but who am I to question the wisdom of the gods?”

“I thought you said the gods were indifferent?” Gilly pressed him gently.

“So I did,” he nodded. “Most of the time they are. Occasionally, if we're very lucky, they toss us a scrap. Have you left him in charge of Ash and your boy? Brave woman.”

“Oh, he does okay...” Gilly could not take her eyes off the water. “I used to dream of places like this. Well, as much as I could when the only brush I had to paint with was one of white and blue.”

Marwyn eyed her with a great deal of fondness. Now that she could read he felt it was only a matter of time until she commanded the pen. He's have her write his letters from now on. “Don't be fooled by its beauty,” he cautioned. “Wyl has been a seat of war for centuries. We're on the outskirts of Dorne – a border town to Westeros. You can see it, there, on the other side of the sea.” He pointed to an indiscriminate part of the shore. _Dorne_ and _Westeros_ looked the same. “Ah, do you see that?”

Gilly followed his eyes to the cliffs on the left. Behind them, there was a faint hue of dust in the air.

“That is an army...” he explained. “And _those_ ,” he nodded at a pair of shadows far off in the distance, “are dragons.”

###  **TARTH – SHIPBREAKER BAY**

“I _hate_ the sea!” Tyrion moaned, sitting on the floor of their ship's deck, clutching an empty bottle of wine.

Varys patiently relieved his compatriot of the bottle and held it to the light. Ah yes, the gift he'd left with the Lannister. On balance it had lasted longer than he predicted. “Nonsense, you _love_ the sea,” Varys insisted. “Your displeasure should be directed toward the correct vessel...” he tapped the bottle of wine.

“You probably poisoned that.”

“I assure you, I did not.” Varys sighed. “Though I doubt it mixed particularly well with the storm last night.”

Tyrion hugged his knees to his chest and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the constant rock of the bloody boat. The sky might be putting on a perfect show but last night it had been an echo of hell itself.

“Ah... That is a sight you should make the effort to see...” Varys added, leaning into the wind. “The pale cliffs of Tarth draped in Targaryen banners. I really do admire them – as a concept. They base their allegiance on statistics, which is promising for us...”

The banners were enormous, three of them, reaching almost to the surface of the waves. Without so much as a whisper they had declared for House Targaryen.

“Warms the heart...” Varys added, before tilting his head awkwardly to the side as their accompanying dragon soared overhead and made straight for the cliffs. Curiosity turned to abject horror as _Rhaegal_ pulled up short of one of the banners, lurched both his legs forward and started clawing at the fabric. His attention had been caught by the movement and despite the terrifying sight of snapping jaws, he was only playing. Perhaps he should consider sending a raven _Tarth's_ way to that effect...

 


	75. A Bird on Trial

 

 

###  **WYL – DORNE**

“Did you ever notice,” Sam questioned, as the ale smacked onto their table. Its cracked surface was drowned in sticky wine, salt and ash that stuck to their glasses. “That we keep endin’ up in taverns? North ter’ South o’ Westeros and it looks about the same...”

The tavern staff were drawn and sallow – a pack of starved wolves weaving through the storm of patrons. Enormous seaweed mats were draped over the walls, breaking the limestone which peeked through the weave like bones from a corpse. Glass vases swirled with smoke while merchants took turns dragging breath from metal pipes attached in snake-like forms to their bases and embellished with silver dragons, fish and crabs. The merchants laid back in squat chairs, drunk on perfumed air.

Marwyn scraped his goblet closer and dipped his thumb warily into the contents. _Weak. Chea_ _p._ Words that had come to describe his life. “There’s not much of anything else, Tarly, that’s why. Where would you have us meet the Targarayen queen’s representative, on the street? There is no safer place than a tavern,” he insisted. “Look at all those eyes.” They shone from every corner. “Watchmen keep you safe. I do all my business in hovels like this. Trust me, eh? I’ve made it this far in the world.”

There were women in taverns too… Several _Dothraki_ slithered up against the opposing wall casting lascivious looks in Marwyn’s direction which he mistook for leers. He thirsted for the taste of flesh and the warmth only another’s body could bring. He had a woman in every city from _King’s Landing_ to _Asshai –_ two when he was younger. _‘_ _Those whores will be the death of you!’_ Leyton had warned, whenever he stumbled into the _Hightower_ smelling of drink. _‘Fucking well hope so...’_ He’d always replied, with a shine in his eye. If he could pick the manner of his departure it’d be between a woman’s thighs.

“ _If_ they come,” Sam nudged the handle of his drink with no intention of indulging. Even the look of it made him lurch. “There’s no way of knowing if her man is comin’ - or that they received your message. You are so desperately convinced of your own gravitas that you’ve overlooked the obvious.” Sam had to pause and dab sweat from his forehead. “That we are insignificant and a member of the queen’s court simply tossed our request into the fire. Face it, Marwyn… We might need ter start thinkin’ of a different plan. Someone else who can help us. There are others. There are _always_ others.”

Gilly rubbed his back softly. “Ill?”

“Sea-legs, they call it.” Sam leaned heavily against the wretched table. Both his hands gripped the edge until his knuckles turned white. “It’s when sailors who’ve been at sea too long imagine that dry land is movin’ like the sea. Even this tavern, Gilly, it’s going back and an’ bloody forth. I can’ stand it!”

“We are all done with those boats. Sh...” Gilly bounced Little Sam on her knee. The tavern was thick with noise and the constant _‘clink’_ of coin falling onto its pale-wood bar. It was the largest of its kind, curving through the length of the dwelling and threatening all who approached with its carved façade of screaming mer-creatures with gemstone eyes and brass tridents. The tavern’s ceiling was supported by ancient ship masts, collected from the harbour and propped up through the room with steel bands which were polished to a fault, picking up the lamplight. _Scraps from Nymeria's fleet_. “They look odd...”

“Unsullied,” Marwyn replied. “Freed by the queen. A slaver tried to sell them to her in the East for a fair price. Instead, she burned the city to the ground and took the slave army into the desert. Now they fight for her. Of course, one wonders if the trail of blood would be quite so thick if the slaver hadn’t first insulted her. A mistake not to be repeated. “And there are the Dornish, with their yellow sashes. Even the Dothraki savages made it inside tonight. Was there ever an army with so much colour?” He mused into his glass. The Targaryen’s mismatched forces were a nightmare waiting for dusk. Peace would be her undoing, of that Marwyn had no doubt.

“He looks like he’s from the North.” Sam pointed out the tall, older man who had entered the tavern and cast his blue eyes carefully over the room. His sandy hair was flecked with grey but his figure was as sharp as any of the younger men. He wore the Targaryen colours – black and red except for the pair of dancing bears threaded into his shirt.

Marwyn struggled to turn his sizable form around. “Bloody hell...” he exhaled. “I mean – _I knew_ – of course but it’s something else an’ all to see the man in the flesh. That there is the exiled Mormont prince, only son of your departed Lord Commander. ‘Prince of Winter’ in days past. No wonder he looks so fucking awkward. I bet he never thought he’d find himself back in Westeros. Not in a thousand years. That’ll be who the queen’s sent to speak with us. Gilly, would you mind bringing him over?”

*~*~*

Jorah Mormont wasn’t sure what to make of his company. A runaway from the Night’s Watch calling himself a maester-in-training. The most notorious mage at the citadel who had recently abandoned his post after burning part of the great library to the ground. A child and - “Who are you, again?” He asked the woman.

“Gilly...” she bristled at his tone.

“Like the flower.” The woman had the look of the North. “And where are you from, Gilly?” Jorah pressed, his disposition cold.

“Mole’s Town,” Marwyn quickly intervened. Mormonts would rather kill _Wildlings_ than take ale with them. Maybe living in exile had changed the Bear’s opinion on the subject. More likely _not_. “Do you know it?”

“Ay. I know it.” Jorah replied simply. If she was from _Mole’s Town_ then he was a fucking dragon. “You sent a request to meet Queen Daenerys Targaryen, why?”

“We have an important message for her – from the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“From Thorne?” Jorah dipped his head curiously. There wasn’t a cryptic bone in that man’s body.

“Ah – the late Lord Commander Snow – no longer ‘late’ actually. He died and then there was this Red Priestess and a fire – something about a wolf...”

Jorah considered leaving. He should have sent Black Scale to deal with these lunatics although that ball-less monster had even less patience than he did. “What was the message?” He prompted, when Tarly finished rambling without actually managing to depart any useful information.

“Winter isn’ coming any more – it’s ‘ere,” Sam leaned in, nearly knocking his ale over. A shower of sweat fell over the table. “Well, at The Wall. With my own eyes I saw it. Dead men. Rising out of the snow all bone an’ corpse – demons made of ice. They brought the freezing winds with them… Forced the Freefolk out o’ the lands beyond The Wall.” He let that terrifying information settle, staring expectantly at the knight.

“I know.” Jorah eyed the ale, wondering if it was any good. “I saw them.”

“Saw them?” Sam’s mouth fell open.

“Yes, Tarly, _saw them_. We were attacked in the Red Mountains by one of these ice creatures less than a week ago.”

“But they’re beyond The Wall – Hardhome and outside Craster’s Keep. They – how could...” Sam turned to Marwyn but the mage was paralysed by an unspoken truth.

“The creature in the vaults of the citadel...” Marwyn whispered, then turned to Jorah. “There was a relic from the last war – or the war before it. One of those things... We thought we killed it with fire but it must have survived – somehow… Escaped. Neither of us saw the ice demon die. Sam and I – we couldn’t see through the flames. There’s a chance it lived. Old Town is not far from the Red Mountains.”

Jorah reached forward and snatched Marwyn by his robes, dragging him uncomfortably close. The Bear smelled like smoke and dust. “What are you talking about? One of these _things_ was at the citadel _and you didn’t tell anyone?_ For how long?”

“It was kept by Leyton Hightower – part of his collection of magical things.” Marwyn tried to divert the Mormont’s fury onto Leyton’s corpse. “After he died we thought it safest to dispose of the creature instead of leaving it in the city. Those things, they get into people’s heads – whispering without words – they make you do things you shouldn’t. We did not know who we could trust. Leyton was murdered by a servant of the Faceless God. They are everywhere… I don’t know what they want but they have infiltrated Westeros and started meddling in her politics.” Marwyn saw recognition flicker across the knight’s eyes. “You’ve come across them as well...”

“One of the Queen’s sailors was replaced by a Faceless Man in Braavos. We suspected another to be on our ship shortly thereafter. Their hatred of Targaryens is legendary. They are trying to stop the Queen’s conquest of Westeros incited by lords with money. There is something I do not understand.” Jorah released his grip on the mage and shifted his interest to Tarly. “Why did Lord Snow send you all this way – to the other end of the continent with such a message? Commander Thorne already sent ravens to every ruler in the land, including the Queen, outlining the threat in the North. I am the most likely adviser to heed the warning so I will ask again and do not lie. Why have you come to meet Queen Daenerys?”

Sam was trapped in the knight’s eyes. They were terrifying. He dared not lie again. “After Maester Aemon died I was sent to the citadel to train as his replacement. Aemon was a dragon. He worried for your queen. I think, his vows aside, he wanted to save her. I was with him in his last days.”

“Aemon was an old man when I was a child...” Jorah admitted. It was strange to think of him as dead. Men like that did not die. They faded into the snow with their spirits fused to the world.

“After our devastating loss at Hardhome, Commander Snow was gravely worried. So much time ‘as passed since the wars that built The Wall that no one really knows what ter do ‘cept stand on them. I was meant ter search for material related to the ice demons in the citadel’s archives. There are volumes that date back nearly a thousand years.” Sam shook his head, unable to express his meaning. “You think you know somethin’ - yer hear all the stories growin’ up and then you realise tha’ it’s only smoke an’ mirrors. We’ve got fragments o’ useless knowledge that was probably born a lie. The men of The Watch, they ride out into the snow an’ hope their gods protect them but the gods aren’ there. Beyond The Wall there’s only death an’ it’s coming fer the realm. Every man on that wall will fight ter the death but it won’ make a damn bit o’ difference.”

“Instead of books, Tarly found me...” Marwyn finished. “There is no one in the realm who knows more about magic and dragons. It is my life’s work and that of Leyton’s.” Although the statement rang false in the presence of a man who’d raised three dragons with a powerful, magical queen. He longed to lay eyes on her. The Mother of Dragons…

“I admit, your reputation precedes you...” Jorah insinuated Marwyn’s fame extended beyond the common duties of ‘maester’. He sat back in his chair and considered them. “Your information and warning about the North is being taken under advisement but I warn you, the Queen looks to the Iron Throne first. Then, if you remain alive, perhaps we can continue this discussion at a later time.”

“But-” Sam opened his mouth.

“Mormont I-” Marwyn was too large to stop Mormont from leaving.

“Ser...” Gilly blocked Jorah’s path with a child in her arms. “Yer know wha’ I am. I can see it, in your face. Same thing I see n’ all the Northerners...” It was an ingrained distaste. The _Freefolk_ succeeded where the North failed and they’d never been forgiven for it. “I’m not from Mole’s Town – I’m one o’ Craster’s wives. That _shit_ beyond The Wall.” She could feel Sam and Marwyn exchange a fearful glance. It was a risk to tempt a Mormont with the promise of _Wildling_ blood – especially Ser Jorah. Rumour was his mother had been slain by a roving hoard. Bears were not in the habit of forgetting a thing like that.

“Craster is a man without a soul...” Jorah breathed in reply. The others relaxed.

“I was born int’er slavery. Raped and confined – forced to bear my father’s child,” she nodded at Little Sam who Jorah had incorrectly believed belonged to Tarly. “Craster used to offer up his boys to the blue-eyed creatures in th’ forest. Blood sacrifices to the great power that lives beyond the snows.”

“The ice demons are Craster’s children?”

“Some of them,” Gilly nodded. At least two were hers… “Somehow they’re changed. Sam there, he killed one of the demons when we ran away.” She paused, looking at her beautiful, warm and alive child. “I’ve seen at least sixty children taken. Imagine how many Whitewalkers there are if every one of our babes was turned...”

Jorah eyed Tarly carefully. “How did you manage to better one of those creatures? Myself and a legendary fighter from Dorne stood toe-to-toe and could not stop an injured one. Near forty of our men died trying until the Queen finished the battle for us. How did you do it?”

“Dragonglass… Kills them quick if you can get near enough. I got lucky.” Sam replied. “Same as Jon with the Commander’s old sword. Mormont’s sword. Your...” Sam struggled with the realisation. “Your sword… Ser. It’s made of Valyrian steel. The Commander – Commander Mormont, he ah – he gave it to Jon before he died. It was meant to be yours but I think – I – your father knew what was out there waiting for us.”

The moment was incredibly awkward. Marwyn kept quiet. House swords were a serious business, especially those made of Valyrian steel. Wars had been fought over less.

“We have a fleet of dragonglass...” Jorah ignored the revelation about his family heirloom. “Brought from the Far East to fight in the wars to come. Their blades are being refashioned as we speak.”

Marwyn shifted. The Mormont had unwittingly revealed too much. “Then you _know_ what your father knew...” he whispered. “That the _real war_ is coming. Of course you do… You’re a Bear. Why would you fight for a Targaryen unless you were promised something in return? You lot have never cared for thrones or gold so what is it?”

“As I said,” Jorah repeated, stiffening. “We cannot help you – _yet_. There is much blood between the Queen and The Wall. The Lannisters have no interest in the problems of the North.”

“Neither do Targaryens...” Marwyn countered, watching carefully for Jorah’s reaction. The gave as much as a wall of ice.

“The Queen’s magic runs deeper than dragons, as you are aware. Your _friend_ Hightower had an interest in her that went beyond the casual. I should know. He was my father-in-law.”

“Yes that’s – that’s _why_ I came to you. I heard that she dreams…”

Jorah lowered his voice into a rustle of air that might be found between the pines. “Daenerys has seen things you cannot imagine, Marwyn...” He paused at the distinct chirp of a dragon. Jorah drew back in alarm.

“We ah – forgot to mention...” Sam nodded at the large brown sack under the table. “There’s also a-”

“Not here!” Jorah hissed, at the idiots. “Outside. _Now_!”

*~*~*

“You _do not_ keep a _dragon_ in a _sack_!” Jorah could not believe his eyes.

They’d found a sort of cave pressed into the limestone cliffs where they could be alone. The lights of _Wyl_ were a dim nest of stars below and the sea, barely a sheet of grey silk. Tarly untied the rope at the neck of the sack and a tiny, infant dragon tumbled onto the cave floor. The creature spun several times then immediately ran to Sam’s feet. It was crimson, like the Queen’s banners with black claws and the first hints of gold on its scales.

“We didn’ have anything else to carry her in,” Sam defended. “And we didn’ want anyone to see.”

“Well – you wouldn’t...” Jorah was in shock. The creature scratching at the stone floor was an impossibility – at least in this part of the world. “Did you _steal_ it?”

“Of course not!” Sam defended, and then found himself amending that statement. “Lord Hightower was dead. We didn’t want his egg falling into the hands of the Faceless Men so we took it.”

“And it just _hatched_. All on its own...”

“Not quite...”

“Tarly!” Jorah barked, causing the dragon to cower behind Sam. “You tell me how you hatched that egg!”

Gilly stepped forward. “Marwyn put it in the flames at the top of the Hightower. The Wildfire hatched it. No one expected it to work… We’ve no idea how to raise a dragon.”

“Evidently...” Jorah knelt and extended his hand toward the dragon. He made soft, cooing sounds like one might beckon a foal. Slowly, the dragon pressed its nose out from behind Sam and nudged forward curiously. “If you keep her in a sack she’ll never fly.”

“The egg comes from Asshai.” Marwyn admitted. He did not mention that there was a second, unhatched. “Ash is only a few months old but growing fast.”

Ash inched out, closer and closer to Jorah until its tiny, sharp fangs nipped the top of his finger, drawing blood.

“Ash!” Gilly scorned sharply.

“No...” Jorah held his free hand up. “That is normal – they like to get a taste of you.” A moment later, Ash licked Jorah’s finger and then moved close enough for Jorah to pet the top of its head gently. It was a sweet thing. Calmer than the Queen’s dragons. “You cannot have a dragon,” he added, seriously.

“Well – we _do_.” Gilly insisted.

“Politically.” Jorah clarified. “The Queen is, ‘The Mother of Dragons’. If you also have a dragon, then what does that make the Queen?”

None of them could answer. Sam scrambled forward and snatched Ash away from the knight. “We didn’ hatch a dragon ter cause trouble. It just happened. We’ve come all this way for your help – to be allies. If you are not interested then we will leave. Simple as that.”

“It is too late for you to leave...” Jorah drawled darkly. “If you want to be a friend to the Queen,” he continued, standing so that he towered over all three of them, “then you will do _exactly_ as I say.” He spoke slowly, allowing each of his words to reverberate off the cave walls.

Marwyn's eyes were drawn to the hilt of the knight’s sword. There was no mistaking House Dayne’s relic. Mormont and his Silver Queen must have plucked if from the ash in the ruined tower. The gods, whichever ones they were, shadowed their cause. “May we have a moment to discuss-”

“No.” Jorah cut Marwyn off. “Yes – or no.” The dragon twisted in Tarly’s arms. Soon she would be too large for any of them to control. “I do not think you grasp how far the Queen has come to take back her throne. _Nothing_ will stop her. Not your heroic cause, not whispers of a future war and certainly not another dragon.

*~*~*

Daenerys Targaryen could not find any words. Her army was pitched in the mountains outside _Wyl_. Their sheer number suffocated any thought of rebellion from the locals providing them with a safe refuge. It was a blessing, after days spent under constant assault in the marshes from thieves and insects. The steep climb from the town nearly killed Marwyn. He left a trail of sweat on the dirt. The last to stop in, he folded the flap of the Queen’s tent down ending the drone of mosquitoes.

Ash lay in the coals of a fire burning in the centre of the tent, barely visible between the hissing flames. Behind, Marwyn caught his first glimpse of the Silver Queen, quivering on the other side of the fire. A living, breathing Targaryen alive in the world and she was _every inch_ her ancestors. Oh yes, she was as beautiful as the rumours promised. She was a falling star, tearing itself apart on night’s endless fabric. She was not simply soaked in magic, her form was writ in it. Fire churned beneath her pale skin.

“Your Grace...” Marwyn fell to his knees, folded double. Both his hands flush to the dirt. He dared to lift his head and look on her again. Targaryens were not meant for the West. “I have travelled further than most men alive,” he began, “and discovered many eyes like yours – all of them in the East.”

“Look again,” Daenerys replied, her voice twisting as though it were part of the flames, “the East is a land of ghosts.”

He _did_ look again and could have sworn that he saw an apparition in the flames. “Apologies… If I offended.”

The Queen smirked and let her eyebrow curl slightly as she turned toward Jorah. Offending her required more skill than this curious maester possessed.

“It will never survive...” Daenerys broke her silence. “I had to wait many years in the desert for my dragons to grow before they were large enough to sail to Westeros. In that time there were dozens of attempts to kill and steal them. The larger they grow, the stronger they become. Young dragons are a risk. Even _if_ your dragon lives, soon it will grow beyond your control and lay waste to whatever it sees – or simply fly into the sunset.”

“Help us, then...” Tarly asked, stepping from the shadows. “Why should Ash die simply because she was born at the wrong time?”

Daenerys’ breathe caught in her throat. _She nearly died because of the poor timing of her birth._ “Ash is a female dragon?” Tarly nodded. “All of mine are male. They will never lay eggs. I always imagined that they would be the last dragons in Westeros.” Like her.

A female dragon could mean the beginning of a dynasty.

The Queen crossed the tent and eased Tarly off the dirt. “I will try, Tarly of the Night’s Watch, to raise your dragon. That is all I can promise. Even if I succeed I warn you, she will not be large enough to defend your ice wall. This creature is hope – a promise after the Winter – not a soldier.”

“Queen Daenerys,” Marwyn addressed her carefully. “May I ask a question?” He waited for her to nod before continuing. “Your knight mentioned that it was you who ended the battle in The Red Mountains. How?”

“The ice creature touched me and shattered.”

He could not believe what he was looking at. Daenerys was not simply a queen, she was a creature of prophecy. “No one has _ever_ done that,” he whispered. “Not even in the ages past.”

‘ _There are times I look at you and still can’t believe you’re real.’_ She heard Jorah’s voice in her head.

“I have brought something else to show you,” Tarly interrupted, extracting a heavy package which he laid over an up-turned trunk. The glass candles were wrapped in many layers of cloth. “We borrowed these from the citadel...”

Marwyn surged forward when he realised what was about to happen. “No! You must not!” Marwyn snatched  the coverings and put them back over the emerging glass candles . “My apologies...” he added, to the Queen and Jorah who had been about to do the same. “The candles are  _awake,_ Sam,” he explained. “Anyone might be watching. The last thing we want them seeing is a Targaryen with a dragon.”

Sam felt embarrassed. That was not the first time he’d had a glass candle snatched away. “I saw a pair of blue eyes in that one,” he explained. “And – you, I think. In a cave. Does that mean you have a candle of your own.”

Daenerys nodded. “We found a similar object at the edge of the world – in a cave… And I have seen you, Sam Tarly, in its sad waters. Why else do you think I permitted you entrance to this tent? The gods are watching us – the demons too.”

*~*~*

Daenerys and Jorah were left with the scarlet dragon. The tiny creature mewed sadly at the stretch of canvas. “If we intend to keep this dragon those three will have to join us. It has a bond with them.”

Jorah laid out old cloth on the floor for it to sleep in and some straw. “I know. It cannot hurt to have a man of the Night’s Watch and a mage from the citadel in our number. They might be useful.”

“They could be _trouble_...”

“So could an army of the undead, Your Grace.”

“Especially Marwyn. I get the feeling he wants to collect me.”

Jorah clicked his fingers, trying to coax the dragon out of the flames but instead it sank deeper. “It is large, don’t you think, for its age?”

“I noticed.”

“Marwyn is notorious for – well – _everything_...” There was no delicate way for Jorah to put that. “But there is one truth that persists in every account that I have heard. Grandmaester Marwyn is _brilliant_. My father-in-law trusted him above every soul in the realm. Daenerys, you are his life’s work. He is a passionate person, loyal and devout. Turning him away would be a mistake. Curse your enemies all you like but curse your friends at great risk.”

“I suppose it is customary for every King in Westeros to have a maester but the others? A man of the Night’s Watch and his woman?” Eventually Daenerys gave up protesting and sank onto the cushions. The tiny dragon was shifting in the flames, considering the bed Jorah had prepared. “What were you saying earlier, about your father’s sword?”

“It is with the Stark King,” Jorah joined her, nursing a pitcher of wine. “I returned it to my father before I fled from the North. House swords stay with the family. If my father chose to give it to that Stark boy then there is nothing more to say on the subject.” Although it stung to think of another man’s bastard being worthy of his family’s affection when he was not. Jorah made mistakes, he understood this but his family meant everything to him and he meant _nothing_ to them.

“You’ll not fight him for it, if you see him?”

“No… Though I might ask if he’d consider passing it to Lyanna. By rights it is hers. What?”

“I was wondering how swords became so important to the Westerosi. Almost all your swords were once Targaryen but we treated them as weapons not slithers of god,” she replied, sensing his stormy mood. “I have read many stories about Houses that let their people starve rather than trade their sword. They are more precious than all the coin in the kingdom, as proved by the Lannisters when they tried and failed to purchase one for themselves. Do you think that, somewhere buried under all the tribal wars of the last thousand years, that we remember the true purpose of such blades?”

“We must pray they do, Khaleesi,” said Jorah, laying his pair of swords on the rug beside them. “Fear breeds loyalty and you will need a great deal of it for what lays ahead. That Tarly boy was right about one thing. Most of what we remember was born of lies.”

###  **THE FROST FANGS – THE LANDS OF ALWAYS WINTER**

Cold Hands could not tell if the castle was made of ice or stone. Its foundations had been consumed by the former long ago and then adorned with enormous protrusions of white, naturally formed into brutal spines by the wind and constant drip of the glacier above.

An unknown race, thousands of years before the Dawn Age, built it into the _Frost Fangs_ , wedged between two mountains with a glacier eating its way overhead causing the ice to crack and growl. Every few days another cleave of it snapped off and tumbled hundreds of feet down the cliffs, smashing into the unknown wilderness below.

All he knew was that this castle was protected by magic. A different kind to _The Wall_. His like – a _halfling_ possessed just enough humanity to break through the invisible barrier but the truly dead fell to pieces at his door.

He kept his horse inside, fed with shrubs harvested from the deepest valleys still warm enough to host life. Cold Hands was not alive enough to eat but he drank directly from the walls, suckling at the ice until it melted. He had become a parasite of the thing he cursed most.

Cold Hands wiped his mouth and settled in the centre of the room. He unwrapped a swaddle of filthy, black cloth to reveal the obelisk of glass. His fingers stroked along the smooth edge, feeling its power throb as though a fire raged there. He balanced it in the ice and stared into its depths. The smoke trapped within parted and for the briefest of moments, he glimpsed the Silver Queen and a flash of red scale. Then it fell dark. He did not know how many glass candles there were in the world but their owners were cautious. Cold Hands had nothing to lose and nothing to hide so he spent his days and nights holding vigil at its side. He saw many things – not all of which he believed.

His horse shifted restlessly at the back of the room. Cold Hands could hear the moan from the snow outside as the dead filled the valley below. He climbed to the window and peered down. A thick layer of mist had settled between the _Frost Fangs_ concealing everything below. They were down there – somewhere – heading South.

###  **WYL – DORNE**

“And you will remove that chain from your neck,” Daenerys added, the next afternoon, as she paced around Marwyn. She had agreed to their presence in her convoy, something for which Marwyn had repeatedly thanked her to the point that she was considering having him gagged. “I fought my whole life for the removal of chains, I’ll not have one displayed on _any_ of my followers.”

Marwyn wondered if the Silver Queen was able to see the irony in her demand. To wear chains and _be in chains_ were one and the same. He did not blame her. She behaved like a queen. Strength of will was imperative to survival. Better to make a mistake boldly than take the right course tepidly. No one followed a whisper into death.

“They are not chains like those you found on the slaves in the East, Your Grace,” Marwyn replied. Without her knight watching on, he pressed to learn her true intentions for the realm. “Each link is a mark of status which the other Houses recognise.”

“Do not lecture me on the symbols of Westeros. I have more than enough advisers, Maester Marwyn-”

“Grandmaester Marwyn.” He could have sworn a flicker of fire crossed her eyes as he corrected her.

“Test me if you like, Marwyn,” she dropped his titles entirely, “but cleverer men than you have tried and failed. Their bones lay in the sea.”

_Not metaphorically…_ Marwyn removed his chain and dropped it onto the floor. “The physical weight of the metal is meant to represent the burden of knowledge,” he explained. “I find that the only thing it represents is a back ache.”

“I can arrange for you achievements to be tattooed onto your neck if you are in any danger of forgetting them. Now – to the dragon...”

*~*~*

Sam and Gilly were forced to leave Ash with the queen while she manufactured a reason for the arrival of a fourth dragon in the realm. Considering the spectacular birth of the other three, an excuse for the fourth would be difficult.

They walked around the edge of the mountain. Their view was an obscured vista full of other, equally uninteresting mountains covered in moss and short grass. Goats roamed everywhere much to the delight of the queen’s three dragons who were out feasting.

“How big do you think they are?” Sam asked, his eyes picking through the sky as morning broke.

“Huge...” Arya replied, climbing up beside them.

They startled at the stranger. “Do I know you?”

“I doubt it,” Arya set herself down on the rocks beside and watched the sky. “Arya Stark,” she introduced herself, “of Winterfell.”

Sam nearly fell off his perch. He stood immediately and stumbled over to the girl. Then, he sat on the cold earth in front of her, much to Arya’s confusion. “I know your brother,” he said. Of course. The Starks all looked the same. It was as though they were forged from the snow itself. “He spoke of you. Jon – he  _knew_ that you were alive.” Then Sam turned quiet. “Your brother, Rickon… He was lost in the battle against the Boltons. You deserve to know.”

“I know.” Arya prodded the cold ground with a stick. “Sometimes when I sleep I see things. I saw that.” She went on to describe the event in such horrific detail that Sam begged her to stop. “He was one of the lucky ones.”

Sam’s emotions swelled. “Is it true what the Mormont said about the attack last week?”

“I lost my horse in the fire,” she replied. “You could feel it coming. They making everything go cold.”

“Do you fight an’ all?” Sam nodded at her sword. She was protective of it, subconsciously tilting her body away. “Of course you do – you’re Ned Stark’s girl.”

“Even the best fighters die.” The girl added darkly, thinking of her Water Dancer. “My trainer from Braavos had a saying. _‘What do we tell Death? Not today.’_ That is what I keep saying. I’ll know when I’m ready to greet Death. I’ll bow and draw my sword and greet him as a friend.” Her grey eyes lifted to Sam’s. He’d expected to find ice in them like all Northerners but they were clouded with mist. “Death and I are well acquainted.” She assured them, then pointed at the ranges. “This is them now.”

“By all the Seven Gods!” Sam gasped, as the dragons appeared. They were not as large as their brethren who conquered _Westeros_ but they were big enough to burn _King’s Landing_ to the ground. He felt a rush of joy at the sight of their elegant wings. How beautiful they were. Gold, green and black. “That’s five dragons.” Sam whispered. “Alive at the same time.”

“They will tear the realm apart...” Arya assured them.

###  **THE EYRIE – THE VALE OF ARRYN**

“The Lady Lysa Arryn was of disturbed mind. This worsened following the loss of her husband. Stress, her maester warned, could accentuate her fragile condition. Were you, Lord Baelish, at any time aware of her disposition?”

Heavy chains weighed his wrists down. Every time Petyr moved they scraped across the stone floor – echoes bouncing from face to face. The Lords of the Vale packed themselves in, shoulder to shoulder, to witness the trial. They reminded him of vultures waiting their turn for a corpse. The largest of their number, Yohn Royce now Lord of the Vale, headed the trial and read the questions from a carefully prepared text. Yohn was an enormous man, towering over the others by half a head. Blood of the First Men. You could always pick it. The eyes – slate and ice.

“I was aware of her peculiarities,” Petyr admitted. “As were we all. Lady Arryn was a woman sensitive to the dangers of ruling. She feared, as was natural, for her son. That acute fear led her to behave in ways one might see as unusual.”

“You admit to knowledge that she was impressionable?”

“Impressionable to fear? Yes. Of course. Fear played in her mind like a bitter tune.” Petyr tapped the side of his head causing his chains to smash against the stone barrier separating him from the Lords. The noise sounded like a reckoning.

“Fear that you fed with whispers.”

“No.” He denied, repeatedly.

“Fear that you used to your advantage.”

“No.” Petyr kept his answers tight and calm. Lord Royce pushed his scrolls aside and leaned to his lift, allowing one of the others to whisper against his ear. After a moment he nodded. Their confidence made Petyr glance nervously toward the Moon Door. It remained covered but he knew well enough how easily that stone was pulled back and the guilty flung onto the cliffs below.

“You and Lady Arryn were lovers.”

“Of course. Lady Lysa Arryn was my wife. Lords Royce, Redfort, Templeton,” Petyr took care to utter every name opposite, “all attended the festivities.”

“I believe I speak for all the Lords of the Vale when I say that no one doubts Lady Arryn’s affection for you.” There was a general murmur of agreement. “It was, as they say, not an affection born overnight.”

The hairs on the back of Petyr’s neck prickled. Suddenly he became aware of the drip of water running down the walls from passing showers and the distant howl of wind.

“Indeed,” Lord Royce continued, “it is common knowledge that you and Lady Arryn had become intimately acquainted since you were barely more than children.”

“There is no evidence of-”

“-and that you conspired to _murder_ Lord Jon Arryn so that-”

“-that is not-”

“- _sit down_ , Lord Baelish. So that you might wed her yourself-”

“-I really must object to such-”

“-and become Lord of the Vale. A position you later acquired.” Lord Royce waited for some time before adding. “Now, you are quiet?”

“Merely stunned by the accusation.” Petyr felt the freezing air pass right through the rags they’d dressed him in. This time he did not have Sansa Stark to act as his character witness. He was alone and the Lords of the Vale were starving for justice. The empty coffins kept piling up and unlike _King’s Landing_ , mysterious deaths were not swept out with the tide. “I am sure that you have heard far more interesting rumours...” Petyr fought to keep his voice steady. He would have to tear his nest of secrets open if he wished to survive. “Rumours about Lysa’s sister, Lady Catelyn Stark.”

Recognition washed over their faces. Everyone in the realm had heard those rumours and took great amusement in them. Like pale wolves, they edged in – drawn by Petyr’s words.

“I have the scars to prove the validity of those whispers,” Petyr assured them, ghosting diagonally across his chest with his hand. “I confess… I loved the Lady Stark.” His voice lifted dramatically. “It was the kind of love that formed in the heart of a boy, never to be cut out by rejection, death or fear...” His eyes took on a shine. “Love that, despite logic, refused to be buried, as it should. Love that wholly distracted me. At the time of Lord Arryn’s death I was far away, thinking only of how I might one day see Lady _Stark._ ”

Littlefinger’s story might have been common knowledge but hearing it from his wry lips was a shocking confession. “But – Lady Arryn...”

“Was as misguided in her love as I was.” Petyr allowed a carefully crafted tear to break the edge of his eye. It cut a freezing river down his cheek. “Later, I learned the truth of what I had long suspected when I arrived in the Vale to wed Lysa.”

“Of what truth do you speak, Lord Baelish?”

“Truth that I wished to spare the boy.” There was even honestly in his confession. “Since he is dead, it cannot do any further harm. Permit me?” He stood, placing both his hands on the stone so that it could take the weight of his chains. “You are right, Lord Royce, Lady Arryn _was_ an impressionable, fragile mind as well as a passionate woman. You are also correct in your guess that she and I knew each other when we were young. It was the result of drink and despair, as I am sure most of you are familiar with. I, myself, had forgot the event and continued to wallow in my own misfortune. Lady Arryn festered. Her love for me was like a poison that darkened after the birth of her boy.”

“Lord Baelish, what are you saying?”

“After I married Lady Arryn she confessed to me something I had previously only guessed at – that she had poisoned her husband, Lord Jon Arryn.” Petyr was forced to take a breath as gasps rang out. His audience were as predictable as the tolling of church bells. He knew how to play people. How to mix whispers, truth and lies until they were indiscernible. “Tears of Lys, purchased on her account now missing, were added to his wine and drunk in King’s Landing. When I learned I was afraid – for her and the boy.”

“Outrageous!” Hissed one. “Shocking!” Another. “Snake!”

Yohn Royce held up his hand until they fell quiet. Of all the lords, Yohn knew Lysa best of all. She was unsound of mind but capable of murder. Lord Baelish wanted Lady Stark not Arryn… “These things will be checked,” he assured Littlefinger. “Though I do not understand. If you knew of such a plot, as you claim, and loved another, as you’ve said, then why did you come to the Vale and marry Lady Arryn?”

“My lords, is it not obvious?” He was met with blank looks. “Lady Sansa Stark… Her life was in great danger and Lysa was the only member of her family I could trust. Marrying Lysa was the price I paid for Sansa Stark’s life. I – I...” Petyr’s voice caught. Tears fell. He buried his head deep in his hands for a moment as he forged the memory of Sansa held above the Moon Door. “I misjudged Lysa’s jealousy. Hate me if you will. I married Lysa to save a life. I am not the first to trade happiness for security nor is there a law against it – except the laws of the heart which I have offended and will pay for in misery for the remainder of my life. The rest – the rest you know.” He sank to stone seat, a broken man. “Telling you the truth earlier would have left the boy without a mother. He was too young to rule. Lysa would never hurt her own child so I held my tongue and left with Lady Stark. That, my lords, is the truth of my dealings in the Vale of Arryn.”

*~*~*

He was thrown back into the sky cell, this time to face the rain which misted in through the void. Endless grey covered the world. He pressed himself into the far side of the cell and for the first time in his life, found himself thinking about Lysa and the life she’d lived. It struck him how similar her story was to his. Her madness was, he knew a manifestation of his rejection. He had used her mercilessly to murder Lord Arryn and weaken the Vale so that he might rule it but when the moment came – when he stood as Lord of the Vale beside Lysa, he could not maintain the illusion. He’d been foolish. He’d chosen a Stark girl – a shadow of the mother – over the power he’d courted for decades. That choice nearly cost him his life. It still might.

The irony.

Every time Petyr brushed close to Death, a Stark lay at the cause.

A smart man would take that as a sign to leave well enough alone.

Petyr flinched when he heard the bolt on the door slip. He found his feet, preparing himself for another routine beating. Lord Royce was on the other side. He was nearly as wide as the gaping stone and certainly taller. His guards hung close by. For a long time the Lord of the Vale did nothing but stand there.

“I always knew that she had killed him,” Royce finally spoke. “I found her in the royal courtyard a few days after the news of Lord Arryn’s death reached the Vale. She was – laughing… Laughing when she should have been crying. The maesters called it madness but I think it was something far simpler. Relief. Robert and Eddard may have liked him but he was a cruel husband and absent father.”

Petyr was not sure what to say. A word in the wrong place and he may as well throw himself from the sky cell.

“If we are being honest, Lord Baelish – I do not care for you. I believe you to be a dangerous, lying, violent, vapid, corrupt narcissist who will sacrifice empires to get what you want.”

“Were you reaching for a compliment, Lord Royce?”

“You claim to care for both the former and current Lady Stark but I’d wager every crown in the kingdom that you killed Eddard Stark. No – there was no need for you to hold the blade.” Lord Royce intercepted Littlefinger’s rebuff. “There are many roads to murder. That said...” He stepped through the door showing that he had no fear of his prisoner. “That said there was something genuine in your confession that I am not sure the other lords grasped. You look at Sansa the way you used to look at Cat. Oh, you may have forgotten but I have been around a long time. Several of us had the misfortune of listening to you fuck that poor girl when you were too drunk to stand. Her so eager and you moaning her sister’s name. Cat is dead but in your eyes, she lives. You see her in Sansa. Ordinarily that would be reason enough for me to have you put to the sword.”

“Then why am I alive, if what you say about me is true?” Petyr choked on his words. There was nothing he hated more than his darkest scars laid bare. It killed him to know that everyone laughed behind his back – since he was a boy. No amount of success, money or brutality could bury their smiles. They’d always see him as that desperate, pining boy. He wanted to murder them all.

“Because Sansa Stark needs loyal council. Winterfell _is_ the North and there must always be a Stark inside its walls if we are to survive. Her brother is a bastard and the rest are, far as we know, dead. The Lords of the Vale are not interested in testing the old gods.”

“So, you are not going to kill me?”

“Your fate is not up to me, Lord Baelish,” he replied, but the hesitation suggested the reality was more complex. “Stay alive.”

That was the last thing he said. Petyr was left with the wind and the rain. Their assault masked the tears which continued to fall through dusk and into the evening. He felt like a small child, sitting on the moors. A boy with such beautiful dreams and terrible nightmares.

###  **THE TWINS – RIVERLANDS**

Jaqen H’ghar found a horse feeding near its master’s rotting body, slipped the reins over its head and mounted it. Together, they found the _King’s Road_ and all the sad souls that trod it. They headed North as a quivering mass of hopelessness. Starved, poor and fleeing the inevitable war at the capital, he blended into the mosaic of despair.

He had been to _Westeros_ several times to offer names to the _Faceless God._ Money and murder ran deep in the tumultuous nation. He wanted to despise the stink of it – the fields built on bones, burned husks of castles, screaming ghost trees and the tribal nature of its people. Instead he came to realise that _Westeros_ was the embodiment of his lifelong passion. A nation free of servitude. A world without dragons where men were their own kings and the _Faceless God_ feasted. The East claimed to be free but every stone in every city was built by a slave. He could feel their screams echoing from the foundations of the very building he called home.

_Westeros_ – it was wild. Wild like the wolf-girl he’d encountered.

Jaqen looked ahead as the mountains ended and the road dipped down toward the river flats. There were endless stretches of grass and swamp, cut by hundreds of tiny rivers and there, at its heart, the  _Green Fork_ of the  _Trident_ an d the pair of twin castles guarding the route North.

*~*~*

“What mayhem is this?” asked Ser Davos, as he rode up beside Lord Stark and his three companions. “Tell yer the truth, didn’ think I’d catch you up so fast. Did you get stuck somewhere?”

Jon nodded. “Ran into a storm a few nights back. We had to wait it out in a village for the sake of the horses. When we set out again there were a lot of bodies on the road. They just leave them there. Takes all my nerve not to stop and burn them. And you, Ser Davos, you must have ridden flat to be here?”

Davos nodded. “Had time to make up. Things are complicated at Winterfell. I will explain everything after we get through this.”

“ _If_ we get through this...” One of the other men muttered.

_The Twins_ blocked the way, controlling the flow of movement between the North and the South. Since the flood of Southerners began, Walder Frey increased taxes on the bridge. A temporary camp sprang into life on the Southern bank of the river where people short on money could trade items and services in order to afford passage. The way into the South suffered in return, with the bridge clogged and nearly impassable.

“We’ll be here for days trying to get through this mess.”

“There are people in this line that have been ‘ere for weeks.”

Jon moved his horse closer to Davos so that they could speak privately. “Might as well tell me you news now, Ser...”

*~*~*

At nightfall, the bridge was closed and both sides forced to make camp. Only the military and registered officials were allowed to travel – both of which Jon was trying to avoid.

“Most of Westeros doesn’ care much about you,” Davos began, “but Frey is a nasty piece o’work. He murdered most of your family an’ believe me, if he knew you were ‘ere he’d wrap you up an’ send you straight to Cersei.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Jon watched the fire in their pitiful camp. “He stitched my brother’s body to his direwolf’s head and threw my mother in the river when they were done slitting her throat. If it were not for the vows I made to Sansa I’d tear down those walls with my hands and show Walder Frey what a wolf can do.”

No one spoke for the rest of the evening. In the morning they shuffled closer to the bridge. Soon, they were brought into the shadow of the castle. Jon tilted his head back and watched the Frey banners flap against the stone. One day, he promised himself, when the wars were fought and the snows pushed back, he’d return to his place and tear those banners down. He’d put Frey and all his generations into the river so that his insidious evil would forever be silenced. He dared not do it yet.

They each offered false travel documents, paid the fee and crossed into the South. Jon stole a moment, turning his horse so that he could look back toward the North and the faint hue of mountains lurking with the clouds. He’d never been father from home. Davos tapped him on the should and they headed out together.

The Southern territories of the _Riverlands_ were made of great swathes of sky and outbursts of grey rock, thrust from low lying fields of peat freshly dusted with snow. The ever-present creep of Winter pursued them. They followed the _Trident_ but its water ran black. Davos led, showing them the safest places to camp when the night folded in around them. Usually, it was by the banks where the mists were at their thickest. Their horses grazed nearby while they cooked rabbit.

“You served a king that took your hand.”

“Fingers, my Lord,” Davos replied, holding up his gloved hand. “Not so bad.”

“A king that burned his own child to purchase victory from the gods.”

Davos looked away toward the dark stain of the river. “If he still lived I’d kill him myself. No one should worship gods that demand such things or follow them into war.”

“Ser Davos...” Jon waited until the other man met his eyes. “I believe you wish to kill the red priestess. All I ask of you is _not yet_. Do you understand? _Not yet._ ”

*~*~*

The first two of Jon’s men died silently. Their throats were cut while they slept and their blood left to trickle into the freezing mud. The third opened his eyes in time to see the curved blade swipe over his skin. He groaned – thrashed and knocked his cup into the fire. The wine sent the flames into a hiss of sparks. Ser Davos woke and saw a thief stand over the fresh body.

Davos roused from sleep and was on his feet in a moment, sword drawn. “Jon!” He shouted, causing his Lord to wake.

The thief, Davos and Jon all circled the fire at the centre of the camp.

“If you’re after money, we have none!” said Jon. “You’ve killed those men for _nothing_.”

“A man is not here for trinkets...” The thief replied. He was light on his feet, withdrawing a second blade from his robes as he contemplated the two men before him. “Lord Snow,” he dipped his head. “Or Stark? Perhaps another name. Your father’s name.”

Jon’s breath caught. Did this man know? How could he _possibly_ know… “Who are you?” He demanded.

“No one at all. I am the last face you will see.”

“I know who he is,” Davos whispered. “He’s from Braavos – one of their assassins. Take care. They are dangerous.”

Jon tightened his grip on his Valyrian sword.


	76. Killing of the Wolves

 

 

###  **THE TWINS – RIVERLANDS**

Ser Davos went for the Braavosi assassin, diving across the flames sword first. Dew gathered on the cold steel, running down its length mid-flight – boiling as the fire licked the surface.

The two men met in a series of vicious blows that rained sparks over the stinking marsh. Jaqen moved with sleek motions, slicing the air as if he were an apparition made of smoke. Davos lumbered, slipping before every strike which he made with both hands on the hilt, overwhelming the assassin with brute force. It was a dance of beauty and desperation that was suddenly torn three ways when Jon Stark struck out leaving Jaqen with an opponent on each arm.

Around them, the bodies of Jon’s men were left to grow stiff in the mud. They became obstacles – falling foul to stray blades and fumbling feet. Reeds bent at the brush of their cloaks. Water-birds screeched and took flight into the dark. From the edge of moonlight, the wolves lifted their noses to the scent of blood.

Jon howled – thrusting _Longclaw_ furiously toward the assassin’s heart. The _Valyrian_ steel begged for the kill but Jaqen sidestepped at the last moment. Jon missed. Set off balance, he tried to save his momentum but Jaqen followed with a blow to his back. The blunt force with the edge of his sword left a scar across Jon’s leather armour and knocked the wolf king onto his hands and knees.

Davos mustered his strength and launched a vicious attack only to be beaten off by Jaqen’s pair of swords that spun so fast they appeared as glittering orbs in the darkness. His leg. A shoulder. Davos gasped with the sudden cuts through his flesh before he slipped and fell. The assassin closed in to finish the old sea captain but Jon rolled through the mud and propelled himself back onto his feet – sword up and covered in mud. He panted heavily. His breath turned to mist where it sank toward the river with the rest.

“What quarrel do you have with me?!” Jon demanded.

Jaqen tapped Jon’s sword away as if it were nothing. “Not with you,” he replied darkly, “with your entire history. With every moment that led to your birth and each one since. With what will follow if you are allowed to live.”

And that is how his eyes burrowed into Jon’s – as though the entire lineage of hatred fuelled a fire between them – fed by both and owned by neither.

“There is no end to the souls that burned so that you could stand here, Jon Snow. They scream in the shadows between this life and the next. A man can hear them… Where the edges of the mountains touch the salt. That is where they lie. Bones which cannot rest.”

“What?” Jon frowned in confusion, before their swords clashed again – the assassin’s pair slid along _Longclaw_ until they met the hilt, locked in a cross. “What business does a man of Braavos have in the West?”

“You are not from the West, Lord Stark – your blood owes mine vengeance. A man knows your real name and he wonders, do you?”

“Yes...” Jon breathed, swaying side to side like an adder. “And I have chosen to remain Jon Stark of Winterfell, bastard son of Lord Eddard and protector of the Northern lands.” Boldly, Jon strode closer, putting pressure where their swords met. “King of the North and guardian of Winter. Whatever you think my blood will purchase, you are wrong. I am _no dragon_...” The last words came as a hiss. Jon had never felt so detached from himself.

Jaqen shook his head. “You are _the King_.” He pushed sharply and their weapons parted with an explosion of sparks that died in the freezing mud.

Davos thrust his blade up from beneath, aiming a jab at Jaqen’s hip. Mid-strike, the assassin shifted and Davos overshot. The Onion Knight recoiled at a boot in his stomach. Bone snapped. He gasped, reaching for is rib. Pain lurched from one side of his chest to the other. “Bastard!”

“Stay down...” Jaqen growled. “There are no bastards among us. Only lies.” He waited as Jon approached. “Enough play...” he added, shifting away so fast that Jon was left grasping at mist. It was clear that he’d toyed with their hopes – dragged out the battle for his own amusement. Now, the moment Jon’s back was turned, the Faceless assassin struck hard – driving both of his swords straight through Jon’s back until they protruded from the Stark king’s chest like fangs on a dragon. Sprays of blood showered the swamp grass, black in the moonlight.

“My Lord!” Davos rolled onto his side.

Jon’s sword slipped from his hand. Shaking, he looked to his chest then lifted his hands, touching the bloodied steel. The silver points vanished, ripped back through his rib cage leaving fountains of blood streaming onto the ground.

Blackness edged at his vision.

The constant howl of the world faded into silence.

Jon looked to _The Trident_ where a faint halo of moonlight wept in its depths alongside ghostly fish. Death wrapped its claws around his knees – dragged him into the mud. Breath refused to come. He could not steal even a single heartbeat from life. Jon knew exactly how this was meant to end. It was familiar. The cold in the dark. His chest tightening.

Death, his old friend. They met a second time.

Davos watched Jon’s body crumble face first into the mud. There he was left, cold and still – the North’s last hope against the horrors of night and he was _dead_. Snatched away without splendour or ceremony. Killing a king was no different than the slaughter of a common man. Stannis was right. Men were twigs on a pine, snapped without a moment’s notice when the snows fell heavy.

“You have _no idea_ what you have done!” Davos hauled his body through the filth until he reached Jon’s corpse. He rolled the Stark over and helplessly pressed his gloved hand over one of the wounds. The blood had stopped along with his king’s heart. “This world will fall into a Winter that never ends.”

“The fate of the world does not rest on one man’s head,” Jaqen replied coolly, wiping his swords clean on the grass. “Of that, you can be sure.”

Jon already looked white as the moon. “It does this time.” Davos brushed some of Jon’s black hair from his face. It was clogged with mud as if the very ground beneath them was trying to drag him below the surface. The assassin did not appear to be in any hurry to leave, almost as though he were relishing the victory. “What about his blood?” Davos demanded, his eyes hot with tears that couldn’t break. Jon was barely more than a boy. Even for a Northerner he was pale – almost as though he’d been pieced together from pieces of the stars.

Jaqen pried a bladder of water from one of the bodies and sipped. “Truly, you do not know?” He laughed into his drink. “He is a Stark, for sure,” Jaqen assured the old man, “but he is no boy of Eddard’s. The Lord’s indiscretion never made it from the womb. The Daynes are ruled by emotion and equally swept away by it, like the tides around their shimmering towers.”

Davos drew back. There were other Starks old enough to have adult bastards. Benjen, for one or – or _Lyanna._ Whisper and rumour rushed over his memory, assaulting Davos until finally he grasped the truth.

“Rhaegar’s boy. Heir to th’ Iron Throne. That’s why you called him, ‘king’.” If the Lannisters knew, they’d tear apart the realm to kill him. No wonder Ned lied. “You were _wrong_. Jon did no’ travel South ter seek a throne. He’s here to beg help from the silver queen for the battle brewing in the North. You killed him for _nothing_. Go on, then. Finish me off. Make sure you burn the bodies or by _gods_ I’ll come back fer you. I’ll not stop ‘till I fookin’ bury you! Yer hear me, Faceless cu-”

“Throne or no throne, a man won’t rest until the last dragon is dead. Silver Queen and all her demon children, included. And you, ser… For all your rage you cannot drag yourself from Death’s side. He looks on you kindly, with an air to make a friend. Venture carefully into the shadows, Ser Davos. We peel back Death’s layers and look upon the faces of the realm. You’d not like the truth beneath the skin.”

###  **BONEWAY – STORMLANDS**

Jorah was not sure what to do with the Stark girl. He kept an eye on Arya and noticed that her presence disturbed many of the soldiers. She walked between them like a ghost, spinning her slender blade through the mountain air – stabbing it into heshen bags as practice – sharpening it on river stones for hours while whispering foreign words to the blade. Often she’d catch birds by hand and pluck them at the fire when the others were heavy with drink. Then the nights came and he’d listen to her squirm and howl through dreams as if possessed by the god of Death himself.

“Arya is nearly wild,” Daenerys remarked, joining Jorah outside the tent. The curtains of fabric whispered behind them, brushing their skin with silk embossed with silver thread. “She has Drogon’s disregard for life and Rhaegal’s wilful mind. I wonder how he is...” Daenerys thought of her dragon. She could do nothing to call him back.

“Keeping an eye on the lion and his spider...” Jorah pointed out. “Any excuse to wander over the sea. He is more serpent than dragon. They must have drowned his egg before you hatched it in the fire.”

They had left the city and moved further through the last of the mountain passes. They made camp on the lower slopes, overlooking the dangerous road which they’d set upon tomorrow. It snaked across the violent landscape like a crack in freshly cooled magma.

“I sent ravens as you asked, my Queen,” Jorah added. “None have returned.”

“It is early, Ser. Your birds may return once they fight their way through the snow. I’ve not lost hope, neither should you.”

Jorah did not share her faith. Inviting him back to the North was an enormous political risk for his cousin and the vulnerable Stark queen. “We should take care to remember that Arya Stark, despite her ways, is second in line to Winterfell and all its titles. She has the blood of kings in her veins and there is power in that – in the North – power we can’t buy with gold.”

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing...”

“Part of me wishes that I could live as Arya does. Roaming the _Great Grass Sea_ on horseback was...” She trailed off. The _Dothraki_ had awakened a primitive yearning in her which she could only indulge in now on dragonback. Violence was part of her soul which she kept shrouded from Jorah. To him – and now to _Westeros_ – she was a mythical queen, pure and deserving of her father’s stolen crown.

Her reality was somewhat more bloody. She dreamed of her face awash with blood and flayed Lannister skin hanging from the walls of the _Red Keep_.

“You are hoping to keep Arya Stark for political gain. Rear her like one of my dragons until we can slot her back into polite society but I caution you, Ser...” Daenerys warned. “I hear her whisper lists of names as she wanders through camp. She is _dangerous_.”

“ _Dangerous_ is that young dragon living in your tent.”

“Ash is calming down...”

“It nearly burned your tent to the ground last night. Twice. You will not be able to shrug these things off for much longer.”

“In two days we won’t have to lie.” Daenerys assured him.

Jorah wasn’t pleased. “Perhaps not but we’ll still have a small, volatile nightmare in tow. What are we going to do with it when we reach King’s Landing? Leave it in the care of the maester-in-training and the drunken whore-monger? Soon as that dragon gets a few feet of breadth in its wings, it’ll turn on us.”

Daenerys sharpened her tone. “The others didn’t...”

“ _Khaleesi_ , they were _yours_. The bond you share with those dragons is lodged deep in a magic no one can ever hope to understand. You are their _mother_. Ash is not your child. She was born wild. Only the gods know how long that egg has waited or where it came from. What if she is a dragon that _can’t_ be tamed like one of the original monsters brought back by the Valyrian Freehold?”

“I _hope_ that is true,” Daenerys snapped, defiant. “For she will be unstoppable and all the Houses of the realm will crumble before us.”

“Before fire and destruction,” Jorah corrected. “Use your dragons carefully. Your father proved that there is no purpose ruling an empire built on fear.”

“And my brother proved that softness of heart is an invitation for death.”

They drew quiet at the impasse. Daenerys stared back towards the South. They were so deep in the mountains now that she could see little but uneven, black peaks. It was inconceivable that the glorious deserts of Dorne lay beyond.

“You’ve been thinking about him more, since Dorne...” Jorah added, carefully.

“There were times when I thought I could see Rhaegar wander along the stone walls with the sea wind at his back, singing one of his songs… I understood what he found in the sand and sea. Freedom.”

Jorah discreetly laid his hand on her back. “You were going to marry into Dorne, as he did.”

“There are times when I wonder if that alliance hastened my brother’s death.”

“Rhaegar was the Crown Prince. Drawing breath was enough to condemn him. The same is true for you. If you do not fight for your birth rite, you’ll be killed for it. That is not all… I see something else, wading in your eyes, _Khaleesi_.”

“I am afraid...” She whispered. “To set foot in King’s Landing. To stand at the throne I have seen a thousand times in my dreams. To walk the crypts where my family rest as bone and dust. I have seen it, Ser, and every time the dreams end the same.”

The Queen faced her knight – her eyes unnaturally dark.

“ _Always_. The throne is a charred wreck. Ash and snow rain through the crumbled ruin. Something terrible is going to happen when we ride into King’s Landing and once it’s done, our path will be set.”

*~*~*

“What’s that?” Gilly shuffled closer to the smoking fire, wrapped in blankets adorned with snarling dragons. Sam had Little Sam swaddled in his arms while Marwyn fussed about with the fire, prodding it with a stick until one of the glowing coals tumbled free and hurtled down the slope into nowhere as nightfall thickened.

“Lightning.” Marwyn replied, as another branch of light cracked into a dozen fractures, striking several rocky peaks ahead. “It starts near every night – rolls in from the sea o’er there and breaks the sky apart. One of the Baratheon maesters said it has something to do with the mountains. A certain kind of rock – it draws the anger of the Storm God. That’s why these here are the ‘Storm Lands’.”

“We’ll be walkin’ that road tomorrow...” Gilly startled when a boom of thunder reached them. It shook the bedrock. “Is it safe?”

“Safe enough. Many walk the Boneway.”

The storm had sent the queen’s dragons into hiding. They found homes in caves and settled for the night among the charcoal bones of their kills. Like the monstrous cats of the _Dothraki_ grasslands, the dragons existed in a permanent balance of feast and fast. For the past week they’d ravaged their way through the mountains consuming human and animal alike when their mother wasn’t looking. Stories of their horror had already begun to make their way North toward the capital.

*~*~*

“Come here, girl.” Daenerys beckoned Arya toward her.

Arya’s hair had grown longer. She swept it up into a rough ponytail with a few stray patches that refused to be tamed. Cautiously, Arya sheathed _Needle_ and approached the Targarayen Queen. Even the way her feet picked timidly through the dirt was like a wolf.

“Ser Mormont tells me that you have spent time in King’s Landing.”

Arya nodded. “Ay. I was there.”

“And that you know your way around the Red Keep – particularly the tunnels that meet the sea?”

“I used to chase cats,” she replied. “The tunnels are full of rats and dragon bones.” The Queen’s head tilted. “The corpses of all the old dragons are buried in the catacombs. They’re left in corners. That’s how I knew they were real. One had jaws so big I walked through them. Father said they used to decorate the Throne room.”

Daenerys tried not to imagine the bones in the dark. The _Red Keep_ was a mausoleum. Daenerys was ready to face the Iron Throne but she didn’t know if she was prepared to stare into the ghosts of her past. “Lady Stark, do you remember the way through the tunnels? Good. I’d like to offer you a deal.”

“You’ll take me home to Winterfell?”

“Oh...” Daenerys opened her arm, inviting Arya to sit with her. “I already intend to return you home. My knight has made me swear to that. He honours the families of the North and so, too, must I. No, my offer is… Not for my knight’s ears but for yours alone.”

Arya’s eyes took on an alarming shine. “You believe there is something else I want?”

“I think you want to hold that sword of yours to a Lannister throat… That is something I can arrange.”

*~*~*

Ser Jorah watched Daenerys trail through the camp with the sky breaking apart behind her. He’d not felt this way about the world since _Asshai_. The gods were wakening and they had a temper in their throats. This violence was only an opening note and it gave gravity to the Queen’s fears.

“What was that about?” He asked, holding out his hand to help her up the last rocky ledge where her tent perched.

“Nothing that concerns you. Oh – do not look so alarmed, Ser.” Daenerys leaned into him for a moment as they ducked under the tent. “Women’s business. Arya is older than she looks. Where is Ash?”

“Over here...” Jorah had to dig the dragon out from a pile of silk cushions. It was building a nest out of whatever it could find and spent its days sleeping. “I can’t work her out. She is nothing like your dragons. See?” Jorah ran his finger carefully down a newly emerged set of spines. They were curved and sharp as needles. “I’m certain she can’t be ridden.”

“Is the cage finished?”

“Yes. It’s built for ravens but I had it re-enforced. It’ll hold long as all she does is sleep like this.”

Daenerys eyed Ash warily. “Better she be raised in captivity than allowed to roam. Imagine what kind of monster she might become without guidance.”

“I am moved to wonder why the lands outside _Asshai_ are covered in dragon bone instead of thick with winged monsters.”

“You felt the air – it was poisoned by magic and now anything with magic dies at its touch.”

###  **THE TWINS – RIVERLANDS**

“It is _frost_ ,” Davos explained, as Jaqen bent down and ran his hand over the crisp swamp grass. “Not meant ter be this far South so soon. Next it’ll be snowin’ at The Twins and soon after that they’ll be walkin’ across that there river an’ there’ll be an end to Frey’s tolls. The borders of the realm are vanishing.”

Jaqen had no cause to kill Davos and no desire to run from the scene either. He lingered at his victory, comforted by the body of Jon Snow. “The air is – strange...” He admitted. “A man has heard of the Northern Gods.”

“This isn’ the North,” Davos warned. “Those gods only whisper ‘ere. They live in the blood trees and scream out from the faces in the wood.”

“The Bone Wood?”

“Weirwood? Indeed. Each tree is a window through which magic may look. Jon he-” Davos had to pause when a lump lodged at the back of his throat. He wiped a damp cloth over Jon’s cheek, cleaning away the mud as they had done at _Castle Black_ the last time he’d died. As much as he despised the Red Witch he longed for her spells now. “He taught me how to listen.”

“A man has heard stories too, of two trees – white and black – Bone and Iron – one with flaming leaves, the other blue. Those are the colours they burn. Fire and Ice. Two sides of the same coin.” Jaqen flipped one of the Braavosi coins, sending it toward Davos who caught it and stared at the sigil of the _House of Black and White._ “Wood gifted by the gods, some might say.” Jaqen continued. “We tore it down and fashioned these gods to our will. They are all the same to us. One god who looks through different eyes at the world.”

Davos tried to move, leaning toward a bag of water but his shattered bone dug into flesh leaving him wretched next to Jon’s body. Jaqen was curious, moving the water within Davos’ reach. “I don’t understand you. Why not kill me?”

“Your name is not on my list.” He took up a seat nearby after stoking the fire to life. The other bodies he had pushed into the river lurking nearby where they were sucked beneath the surface. “Tell me about your Gods...”

“My gods are the Sea and the Storm. That’s all there is when you’re on the water and the horizon becomes oblivion.” He looked North. “Even the waves are tamed by Winter. They freeze into land and continents become one mass. Soon, your palace in Braavos won’t seem quite so far away. Our gods will become your gods and I promise you, they are _monstrous_.”

###  **CASTLE BLACK – THE WALL**

“Fuck the bear and all its cubs!” Dacey nearly dropped her sword at the sight of rougher-than-Ironbark _Wilding_ strutting through the gates, dragging his weary horse behind. The poor creature was thin as bone, eyeing off the piles of hay as the convoy from _Winterfell_ flooded into the yard.

Tormund was buggered from the walk. He hadn’t been this thin in the face since his miss-spent youth but at least the thick scrub of orange beard covered the worst of his sunken cheeks. His dead stare toward the mud was interrupted by a snapping growl, raised from the past like a rift of frost cracking away from the _Frost Fangs_. He lifted his head and found a middle-aged woman wrapped in furs, staggering down the steps. She sheathed a dragonglass sword and focused a scathing glare that he’d earned a lifetime ago.

Fuck. He would know that woman anywhere.

“Dacey…?” He fished the name from memory. Tormund was answered with a slap so hard it knocked him right into the cold mud. His knee cracked a layer of ice. Water seeped into the cloth as he stumbled back to his feet, using his horse as leverage. A layer of laughter settled in the air from the _Night’s Watch_. “Yer remember me, then.”

“Piece of _shit_!” Dacey had not finished with the Wilding King. She struck him again but this time Tormund managed to stay on his feet. _Just_. The woman had _paws_ for hands and the force of the North wind. “I told you I’d take your fuckin’ head if I ever saw you again, Wilding _scum_!”

Melisandre eyed the exchange from atop her horse passively. She was more interested in the castle rearing out from the ice. Winter had thickened its hold since she’d last laid eyes on the fortress. It was as though _The Wall_ itself was starting to consume them, freezing them alive. At the same time she could feel the Lord of Light’s magic growing. The closer she got to the North, the stronger it became.

“Mind if I feed this ‘orse and take a place by the fire? You can follow me around for all I care.” Tormund grunted at the bear ambling after him.

“Damn right I will.” Dacey growled.

“Aren’ yer meant ter be dead?” Tormund added, giving his horse a gentle nudge.

“You _hoped,_ you skinny little shit. You fucking _prayed_.”

*~*~*

“Old friend of yours?” Asked Lord Commander Thorne, leaning over his wine in the main hall when Tormund and his party finally sat down for a sad offering of rabbit and crow soup. A particularly unattractive leg was poking out of his bowl. The supplies from the South were in the process of being unloaded into the granaries. Tomorrow there’d be bread but this lot were so hungry they’d eat the bloody stones right out of the walls. “I didn’t think your lot mixed with the Wildlings...”

He and Dacey occupied the official table at the front of the hall, separated from the others. It was so cold inside, even with the fires lit, that everyone kept their furs on. They were running out of kindling unless a few brave souls felt like a stroll toward the _Haunted Forest_.

“We don’t.” Dacey replied sharply, before she was forced to amend her reply with a scattering of truth. “Not usually. Only the young and stupid mess around with Freefolk.” She tried not to allow her thoughts to wander to Mance. Those nights in the _Winterfell_ crypts were something she had difficulty explaining to herself let alone anyone else. It seemed like every time she set foot in this place she was forced to relive her mistake.

“I know you… There’s a story in those eyes.”

Dacey searched the Lord Commander’s face but found nothing there but curiosity. At the ends of the realm, perhaps that is all he had left. “I guess there is nobody left to reprimand us… and we are not children anymore.” Dacey sighed and slid her wine away, losing interest in the sickly liquid. Seeing Tormund again had dredged up thoughts of her past she’d left safely buried. “Occasionally Wildlings rowed to our shores for reasons other than plunder. They were after conquests of a different kind.”

Thorne had developed a disconcerting curl to his cracked lips. “I was young once and I’ve chased enough Night’s Watchmen from the brothels to know that rules aren’t necessarily rules.”

“Were you chased, Commander Thorne?” Dacey paused long enough to see a patch of light in his eyes. “Your new Wildling King thought he’d try his luck on one such night. He ended up mounting something that nearly took a piece out of him.” Tormund still wandered around with the scars from the encounter.

“You and-”

Dacey repulsed before Thorne could finish. “I’d rather fuck his horse. No. But he earned his beating earlier.”

“Do me a favour, Lady Mormont,” Thorne implored her, “don’t go tearing his throat out over ancient history. Snow sent him to us ter keep the peace.”

“Stark...” she corrected. “King of the North, as it should ‘ave been.”

“I forget your lot are the loyalist fuckers in all the kingdom.”

“Small island,” Dacey cut back, almost fondly. “Not much else to do.”

Thorne knew their loyalty ran deeper than that. “Yeah well, he’ll always be fuckin’ Snow to me. A pup scratching at the ice.”

“Is it true – you tried ter kill him once?”

“I’ll not apologise,” Thorne warned her. “The situation was complicated. Still fucking is. Now, Snow has to live. I’ll fight for him – so will my men – so will those fucking Wildlings. That’s all that matters.”

*~*~*

Melisandre wandered through the camp at _Castle Black_ until she found a place where _The Wall_ met stone. Up close it was simply ice – like that beneath her feet and the daggers clinging to the rooves. She reached out – laid her hands upon the surface followed by her head. Melisandre could hear a song rustling beneath. Like holding a shell against her ear there were static murmurings but no matter how long she lay there she could not make them out. They were outside her understanding. Pieces of truth behind a veil. The ramblings of _ice_ were beyond her. All she had was the hissing voice in the flames.

Her hands brushed the surface, shifting a layer of snow that covered the ancient blocks. Spider web threads of silver lived within, as though lightning had been locked inside. Weirwood roots… Fused with _The Wall_. Stories of their power were writ in forbidden volumes. She had read them in the Free Cities by dwindling candlelight.

_Follow them_ .

Melisandre turned and headed toward the gates.

###  **THE TWINS – RIVERLANDS**

It was near dawn. Davos had propped himself against a misplaced bolder and sat draped in blankets while the Faceless assassin knelt at the edge of the river. The dawn hadn’t settled on a colour yet leaving the surface of the water silver. Jaqen whispered ancient prayers, dipping his hands into the water.

Davos turned to Jon. His body was pale blue with black lips. In the light he could see tears of his flesh poking through his breast plate. _If_ he lived, Davos knew he’d have to find a way South. Sansa’s future depended on the support of the Targaryen queen. He couldn’t leave Lady Sansa in _Winterfell_ surrounded by hostile armies intent on taking her head at the first sign of weakness.

Jaqen turned suddenly, eyes fixed on Jon’s corpse. The world was perfectly silent. Mist whispered over the surface in arcing curls, like slow moving waves and yet he’d heard something move behind him. It couldn’t be the sailor. He was immobile and bleeding internally.

“Something wrong?” Davos asked, as the assassin left his prayers and wandered back to the smouldering camp.

Jaqen paced around the coals a few times before replying. “A man will bury him,” he nodded at Jon. “You can say the prayers of his gods.”

Davos shifted. “Yer don’ give a bugger about our customs. What do yer think is going to happen? Are you worried he’ll wake up if we don’ put him five feet down?”

“As you said,” Jaqen replied calmly. “He rose from the dead once.”

“With a Red Priestess hissing over his corpse. Was her magic brought him back. There’s nothing ‘ere but Death.”

Jaqen looked away.

###  **CASTLE BLACK – THE WALL**

The Red Priestess sank to her knees in the soft snow. Her hands dug through the powder, clawing at the base of _The Wall_ frantically like a wolf after a squirrel. She was beyond the gates of _Castle Black,_ a few hundred feet but its dark body loomed. She scratched furiously until she found ice. It met her hands like steel.

Brushing away the loose snow, she was left with a patch of solid ground that was blue with huge bubbles of air trapped beneath the surface like pearls. A snap freeze. Between the bubbles were more hairline roots. They reached well beyond the edge of _The Wall_ toward the Northern lands.

Blood dripped onto the ice.

Melisandre gasped. Lifted her hands. Blood ran over her fingers. She touched her face and found hot liquid running from her eyes like tears. They vanished into the ice and evaporated – instantly boiled to nothing.

###  **THE TWINS – RIVERLANDS**

The grave was dug. Jaqen grabbed Jon roughly by his arm and hauled him toward the shallow hole in the mud. Davos could barely bring himself to watch. Jon was a king. A good man. He didn’t deserve to be buried in an unmarked ditch. This isn’t what all those men had fought for.

_Thud._

“Go on then, say what you want to say.” Jaqen sat down on the grass to catch his breath.

Davos could barely crawl but he did, kneeling at the edge of Jon Stark’s grave. “ Forgive me, M’Lord...” He whispered, closing his eyes as a tear slipped over his cracked cheek.

###  **CASTLE BLACK – THE NORTH**

The Red Witch fell backwards with a scream that echoed all the way along _The Wall._ She clawed at her chest, gasping violently as blood drained from two holes in her breast. Her eyes rolled into her head. Their whites reflected the horror as her lips formed words she didn’t understand.

Something had taken possession of her and it came from deep beneath the frozen ground. She could feel it, snatching her soul right out of her heart while it was still beating.

A passing horseman reared his animal and rode hard toward the woman in the snow. He rolled off the horse before it had stopped, tossing the reigns over its head and leaving it to wander as he approached the woman.

Dorin swept his cloak from his shoulders and laid it over the woman. Next he slapped her hard across the cheek, trying to snap her out of the seizure that had taken control of her limbs. The shock of it worked. The woman sat up, clutching violently at Dorin with nails as long as claws.

‘ _What’s dead may never die!’_ She gasped, rasping for breath. She felt as if she were breathing in the frost and exhaling petals of the Winter Rose. “ What’s dead… What’s...” Her mind began to return and she _was_ covered in petals  but they were black and dead. Her clothes were drenched in blood and yet the snow was clean. She pushed the cloak away and searched her chest but the wounds had closed. “Who are you?” Melisandre finally whispered.

“A friend...” Dorin replied carefully. “On my way to the castle. Are you from there?”

Melisandre glanced over her shoulder at the black walls and nodded. “I...”

“What are you doing ou’ here all alone? There are wolves about an’ they’d take a moment to rip your pretty little throat out.”

He was the most Northern thing she had ever come across and all  she could do was nod and allow him to  lay her across his horse. The priestess faded out of consciousness and Dorin was left to continue on to  _Castle Black_ on foot leading his horse.

###  **THE TWINS – RIVERLANDS**

Jon Snow gasped – mouth wide – dragging in his first, icy breath. It came as a cry. A howl. As _something_ unearthly. He reached up and wrapped his hands around the sword laying across his chest as though the steel itself had called him out of the darkness.

“Jon!” Davos shouted, forgetting his injury as he groped at the hole, reaching for his lord.

Jaqen stumbled backwards as the body of Jon Targaryen re-animated. He’d seen the dead walk before – worn as shadows but _never_ had he witnessed a life renewed. It knocked him completely off guard. He kept retreating, heading toward the water’s edge as Jon’s hand reached the edge of his grave. Fingers curled in the soft mud. Tugged at the long, thin grass. Then the man himself appeared and crawled out of the hole in the earth that had failed to hold him.

Jon’s face was cracked and marred by his hours spent in death but this was a brief venture compared to the last time. Standing on the bank, he touched his chest where his wounds remained, partially closed. He nodded at Davos, who could barely find a word and then turned to the assassin.

“You worship Death,” Jon had to hold his throat to make the words out. “Well, I have met your god.”

Snow entered the air around them in chaotic flurries. Ser Davos could feel its freezing touch settling over the world. “My Lord...” he pointed to the water behind the assassin.

Jaqen, who had said nothing, turned. Behind him, the sun had risen over the edge of the world and revealed the true colour of the waters. _The Trident_ ran red, clogged with corpses drifting South. Men. Women. Children. Wolves… Bloated and staring with grey eyes, the bodies moved toward them. Jaqen took a measured step away from the water. The horror was almost too much to behold.

Jon did not avert his eyes. He fixed them on the water. “I saw them,” he whispered. “They were down there, in the darkness, chased by the wolves. They have come out of the woods to feast.”

_And Jon was a wolf._ Jaqen could see that now.

“Aren’t you going to try and kill me again?” Jon asked, opening his arms out to the man.

Slowly, Jaqen shook his head. “A man gives a name to his god but his god does not want this name...”  Then he did the unthinkable. He knelt beside the river and bowed his head to the Wolf king.


	77. A Thousand Eyes and One

 

 

###  **THE TWINS – RIVERLANDS**

“Magic is not what the realm believe it to be.” Jon Stark said, standing on the bank of _The Trident_ as the bodies floated by. Their horrid, bloated corpses bobbed beneath the stained surface, dragged inevitably toward the sea – hundreds of miles away and straight into the jaws of the Drowned God. Jon could feel their presence – the dead drifting in oblivion and the gods that moved unseen through the world. “Ignoring magic will not make it go away. It is woven into the air we breathe and the oceans lapping at our ships. Magic is what brings the Summer rains and sets the frosts in Winter.”

Jon’s face, ashen, had cracked and crystallized. Tiny purple scars were etched deep at the edges of his eyes making his appear a frightening shade of blue that slowly paled. He was changed, irrevocably, every time he dipped below the surface of life.

Jaqen was wary of him but in equal measured _awed_. “And magic is what brought you back,” he agreed. “You are neither living nor dead. These walking corpses in the North beyond your ice wall... Is this same magic what holds their bones together?”

“A vile breed of it, yes...” Jon replied. “As the Braavosi like to remind the world, in truth it is all the same. You may _hate_ one side of my blood,” he added, turning, “but I doubt you wish to join your god so soon and will away this world. Not if you had seen what I have.”

Jaqen was struggling. His entire fabric of reality had unravelled and now he was trying to piece it back together. “These people, what happened to them?” He asked, of the bodies in the river.

“I cannot say for sure,” Jon replied, “though it looks like the wolves came for them. I heard screams and gnashing jaws in the darkness. With all the death in the realm, the wolves have bred into packs in their thousands. With the snow is falling thick they have to come out of the forests to hunt. The people waiting to pass over the bridge at The Twins would not have stood a chance. There is nothing more fearsome than a frenzy of wolves. Tell me,” Jon lifted his Valyrian blade menacingly, “why should I let you live?”

Jaqen did not draw his weapon. There was no point. You could not kill something that Death did not want. “A man has no intention of killing you,” he replied. “He takes the will of his god seriously. The Faceless God wants you alive which also means that he wants what _you want_. I can help, Lord Stark...”

“How could you possibly help me?” Jon stretched out his fingers on his free hand. There were pains in them like chills, eating him from the inside.

“The silver queen...” Jaqen replied. “She knows me as a skilled fighter and loyal subject.”

“More fool her.”

“Perhaps but I can get you inside her court to be heard. Lend weight to your words.”

“You’ll kill her,” Jon replied, “you said as much yourself. That does not serve me. I need the Targaryen Queen alive.”

“A man has changed his purpose – he swears.”

“And what value does a man’s word have if it belongs to no one? Those eyes are not your own. You ask me to trust you from behind a murdered face.”

That was not entirely true. Jaqen wore his own face.

“What a man wants is the key to knowing his soul,” Jaqen reached for the sheath of a sword he had not yet touched. He unhooked the clasps and held the jewelled, Valyrian short sword in one hand, not yet drawn. _Truth_ lay bare. “A man knows what others want. Secrets which he can offer as collateral. Protection from sleeping creatures that would do you harm.”

###  **THE BONEWAY – STORMLANDS**

It was hardly a scratch in the stone. The _Boneway_ was travelled regular but never with any love. It was a disaster of bare rock and collapsed valleys where parts of the mountain flanks had broken off and crumbled across the pass. Passages had to be cleared by hand leaving towering piles of rubble, threatening to fall again.

Some brave _Dothraki_ rode their horses up over the obstructions, practising battle. They were tame, for the moment but their wild nature itched for the bloodshed they were promised.

The Queen’s caravan was the largest convoy to cross the _Stormlands_ since Robert’s Rebellion and they were plagued by constant delays. Daenerys travelled at the front beside the custom made cage for the tiny dragon covered in layers of cloth. Darkstar hung at the edges, often riding up into the first level of the mountains to get a look at the road ahead in case there were surprise raiding parties in hiding. What he found instead were patches of scorched earth, recently burned or in the final stages of smouldering. The Queen’s dragons had been hunting ahead of them…

“Anything?” Ser Jorah asked, as Darkstar’s horse trotted down the uneven track.

“Nothing but bones...” He replied, amid the screeching cries of the _Dothraki_ echoing through the valley. “This is a wasteland.” And there was another storm gathering at their back. A light sheen of rain had already begun feeding hundreds of micro-falls that gushed off the surrounding mountains. “The palace you spoke of lies ahead. I could see the top of its ruin.”

“So… It is still there...” Jorah breathed in relief, glancing at the Queen. She was out of earshot. “I was not convinced it would be standing after all this time.”

“From what I saw, there is not much left.” Darkstar warned. “I do not know what the Queen intends. Keep an eye on the East,” he added. “Stonehelm is but a breath over our shoulder. The Swanns are loyal to the Baratheon reign and they have enough men to cause us issue while ever we remain on this narrow road, walled in by the mountains.”

“I know that,” Jorah assured the other man. “I’ve got men watching the valleys in case they cut us off from behind.” He sighed and looked up toward the sky. The dragons were gone again.

“I did not see them either...” Darkstar followed the old knight’s eye. “But they are here.”

###  **KING’S LANDING – WESTEROS**

The feast dripped from the walls of the great hall. Every surface was alight with shimmering candles, caressed by a gentle current of air passing under the doors. The storms outside were kept at bay, shielded with Ironbark and stone – dampened with groups of musicians polluting the air with their sickening melodies. Queen Margaery despised them. Their cheer stoked her despair. She rested her hand where a child grew – forced her face into the appearance of joy but failed to stomach anything except water which she sipped possessively as though the goblet were the only thing tying her to life.

Her grandmother lurked at the edge of the room where the light was at its weakest. She orchestrated the room from there, nodding to her network of whisperers who managed the important guests in and out of the king’s presence.

The Lannister whore, Cersei, paraded herself around the feast dressed in gold and red robes that dragged on the stone. She busied herself, harassing those members of the council that had shown support for the disgraced High Sparrow. With Pycell’s mysterious death, their court was without a maester. Word was sent to the citadel but the position was coveted and infighting among the maesters led to a delay.

Loras looked better than he had in months. His hair was washed and hung over his ruined ear in soft, golden curls. His scar that corrupted his forehead had been masked with makeup taken from the acting troop who performed vile plays depicting Daenerys as a dragon fucked by horses and Lady Sansa as a headless wolf, flayed and left to rot. The true horror was reserved for the Sparrows which began as the centrepiece of the feast – baked sparrow and finished with sugared lemon tarts in the shape of sparrow eggs. It was a theme reinforced by the blood painting the door of the _Red Keep_. The blood of captured sparrows who lay in pieces at the bottom of _Blackwater Bay._

King Tommen had taken command of the room, entertaining nobles that had lost faith during his brother’s reign but were now inching back into the fold with their coin. He needed all of them to bring their armies into the city and help rid them of the insidious religious plague.

“I heard they set the Dragon Pit alight earlier,” one of them had said, moving the King through the room. “Bonfires that reached to the roof. They are burning books from the city library. Pay records. Business contracts. When the ash settles tomorrow, there will be a fresh wash of economic chaos.”

Tommen wondered how many nobles hoped to pretend that their records had been lost and beg their debts to be forgotten… If that was the price of loyalty, he was prepared to nod, smile and play along spending money he did not have. In the pit of debt there was little difference between a hundred feet and a thousand.

A body slammed into the main doors, interrupting the feast. The music stopped. The room turned and the king stood from his seat and strode into the centre of the room. A King’s Guard crossed from the door, cutting through the guests.

“My Lord – a runner...”

*~*~*

King Tommen, his queen, Cersei and Olenna climbed the inner tower with a crowd of soldiers. The narrow stone opened onto a balcony overlooking the Sparrow-occupied quadrant of the city. Indeed, the Dragon Pit was alight with flames dancing against the night sky. They burned yellow, red and flickered into green, fed by more sinister items than books and sequestered rum.

The fire had escaped the pit and taken hold of the ancient merchant quarter – turned derelict housing area for the ultra religious. They could hear the screams from here but sympathy was hard to garner.

“So what?” Cersei shrugged, watching the fire. “They deserve the flames. Monsters.”

“No – that is not what we are looking at, mother,” Tommen replied. “Beside – the grain stores.” The last silos in the city. After holding _King’s Landing_ to ransom for months, they were about to vanish in smoke. “The wind’s blowing it South. Once it tears through those flames ’ll be into the streets.”

“Everything is wet from the storm,” Olenna whispered. “The flames will stop.”

“Not if they hit Flea Bottom. Hovels built with oil-soaked cloth... What is it now?” Tommen turned to another solider who was hoarse from climbing the stairs in full armour.

“They’ve strung up bodies along the Dragon Gate – the missing nobles you asked us to look for. They’re dead. All of them. We found their homes ransacked.”

“Money for the High Sparrow’s coffers...” Olenna hissed. “He’s getting desperate. We have to move on the Dragon Pit before this descends into a civil war. We need to call the Lannister army back before we lose control of the city.”

“Jamie is holding Winterfell...” Cersei cut back. “We can’t possibly relinquish our position. The Tyrell army is chaperoning grain. They could be diverted. They’re west of the King’s Wood. That is not far.”

Olenna considered this. As much as she despised agreeing with Cersei it was a sensible request. “That could be arranged – with certain guarantees...”

“You want to bargain for the security of King’s Landing?” Cersei eyed Olenna.

“No.” She lifted her withered hands calmly. “Allow Loras to lead the Tyrell army into the city. Sulking around court is no good for him. Of all the people, he has as much cause as anyone to rage against the Sparrows. He’ll deliver them on a plate.”

Cersei could find no fault in this. “My King?” She looked to Tommen, who had both hands on the stone bannister, watching the fire burn. It boiled up, catching something else before exploding into a fresh wall of flame.

He hoped – _prayed –_ that there were no stores of Wildfire beneath the streets. He wondered if his mother even cared? Maybe she was _hoping_ the city would be engulfed in flame. Then she could rule the ashes, unchallenged. “Do it. Send Ser Loras out at once with a company to find the army and bring them in. _And find someone to fight that fire._ ”

*~*~*

Hours later, Olenna watched the flames dying down into a soft glow like embers. It was the rain rolling in from the _Narrow Sea_ that saved them and nothing else. Loras was on his way and she had sent a raven ahead to the Commander of the Tyrell forces. The Sparrows were not of her creation but they were certainly useful.

###  **DRAGONSTONE – BLACKWATER BAY**

The volcano shivered, rustling deep beneath the island. Daario hung over his throne, picking at the black glass with his nails. His dark hair fell in matted dreadlocks, some of which he wove feathers into – others shells. Inside the vaults of _Dragonstone_ he’d found other treasures, many of which now hung around his neck including a string of black, misshapen pearls.

“I would wager,” his man Lugg stated, leaning against the dragon mural beside the throne, “that you are the wealthiest man in Westeros.”

“Most of this coin belongs to the Queen,” Daario reminded him. “Anything we pilfer on the side is another matter.” He kept an eye on Lugg. That creature was a true pirate. He half expected a knife to come out of the dark at the first sign of weakness. There was no chance of that yet. Daario had brought them from the East into the fertile killing grounds of the West. They _loved_ him. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your share, Lugg.”

“I am not worried, Captain. Just want to know when we’re to set sail...”

“When we hear from the Spider.” Daario insisted. “In the meantime, keep going through the vaults. I want an inventory of these tunnels. Stannis left a small fortune here but there is more than gold buried under this mountain. This is the heart of the Dragon empire.”

The pirate pushed off the wall and bowed to Daario.

*~*~*

Heat radiated from the black rock. Lugg shuffled past the teams of pirates unloading weapons from the ships and took an inventory of the latest pit. Then he folded off into one of the side passages with a flaming torch in hand. Down here, instead of rock the walls were made of cut dragonglass, cleaved off with pieces of flint. They sliced straight through flesh and leather if you touched the edges and so Lugg carefully and slowly held his torch aloft. He was barricaded by blackness – in front and behind. He felt like he had wandered into the throat of Death.

Eventually the gravel underfoot turned warm. He could feel the heat through his boots. It reminded him of the hot sand on the beaches in the _Basilisk Isles_ where the crystal water stretched forever and the putrid forests, clogged with rotten fruit, left a haze of alcohol in the air.

He slipped.

Lugg’s hand hit the wall and sliced open. The torch fell – rushing to the ground in a roar of flame. Lugg gasped and cupped his bleeding hand against his chest, swearing. He tore fabric from his shirt and wrapped it around his palm, holding the wound shut as he retrieved the torch.

Ahead, the ground dropped away sharply. Only a few feet from where he stood, the passage ended and a chasm opened. The depths glowed. Unbearable heat lived within where the molten innards of the mountain pooled like blood in a wound. He inched as close as he could bear. Liquid steel, left churning where the salt crusted on the surface, bubbled up into mushrooms of flame the size of ships. Some cooled this way, left as black clouds of rock. Others burst and threw a fresh layer of glass at the walls.

Lugg backed away from the edge and clawed at his throat as the air burned down into his lungs. The flare of orange glow caught a set of scratch marks in the glass where dragons had slithered by, woken from their roosts beneath the mountain.

*~*~*

Tycho stormed up the docks, infuriated. His ship lay on its side, half-sunk with only its ropes holding the vessel above the waterline. His captain laughed and drank with the other pirates – now a pirate himself, robbing Tycho of passage off _Dragonstone_.

“There are no ships spare...” Daario made no effort to hide his amusement.

“You _bribed_ my man to join your ranks!” He growled, slamming his fist on the table. The old pieces of war rattled and fell. Stannis’ failed attempt at conquest.

“I did no such thing.” Darrio assured him. “As I have no need of men. Look around. I have plenty but if your man wishes to join I’ll not stop him.”

“Euron!” Tycho hissed Daario’s real name. “Have you turned mad!? It is in _both_ our interests that I return to the Iron Bank or things will seem amiss. Any strange activity will alert Cersei and her empire that there are pieces in motion against her. Your dragon queen would not wish that. My partners in King’s Landing do not wish that.”

Daario let the edge of his lip curl into a smile. “Of course I intend to offer you passage back to the Iron Bank – after...”

“After _what_?”

“After you _beg_ for it.” Daario said darkly.

“The Bank of Braavos begs _no one_.”

“The Bank of Braavos had its ceiling torn off by a pair of dragons. Its finances are drying up. The vaults of gold have all been lent out on bad investments and now those investments are about to go up in flame – quite literally – with no hope of retrieving that coin because the Lannisters already spent it. I’ll take you home but you’re going to get on your knees and beg me for a ship.”

“You can’t be serious...” Tycho paced around the table but then he realised that he was staring at an Ironborn sitting on the ancient throne of _Westeros_. In this moment, Daario had more power than anyone in the realm, including his beloved Silver Queen. It was neither here nor there to Daario whether Tycho returned to _Braavos_. His friends were in _King’s Landing._ “You _did_ sink my ship and turn my captain. I _know_ you did.” He fisted his hands but was smart enough to recognise that violence was _not the answer_ when surrounded by an island of cut-throat criminals. “It doesn’t matter whether you did it.” He was muttering to himself, turning in circles. “What do you want, Euron? What do you actually want? It’s not to be this – a puppet king on a stone throne.”

Daario was unmoved by his words. He knew _exactly_ what he was and what he wanted. The _Bloodstone_ in his possession had shown him the future. “As I said. _Kneel_. Kneel as you made me do – then you may have a ship.”

###  **SHARP POINT – BLACKWATER BAY**

“There it is...” Varys braved the light rain on deck. The enormous watchtower rose directly out of the cliffs with its eternal flame shining in the silky grey which the world had become – blurred somewhere between fog, mist and rain. The shoreline was black, like all of the shores approaching _King’s Landing._

“Are you certain we can trust Lord Emmon?” Tyrion asked, pulling his cloak over his head. Rain tumbled off the wool.

“He defied the Stormlords once for the Targarayens – he’ll do it again. For the same reason.” Varys paused. “Gold.”

They sailed the Queen’s fleet into the quiet waters behind _Sharp Point_ and waited. The weather thickened around them, unable to settle.

“There it is!” Tyrion pointed through the fog to a small boat rowing out from the shore toward the fleet. An hour later, it pulled alongside their ship and they lowered the ropes. Lord Emmon himself ascended. “My Lord...” Tyrion was the first to approach and bow his head. “We have met before.”

Lord Emmon eyed the imp suspiciously. As Master of Coin he’d blocked every request for funds. At least Baelish had been loose with the realm’s gold. “I remember.” Lord Emmon was a large man with an even larger wound that wept, open on his face. It was dressed with bandages that failed to mask the severity.

“What has happened, my Lord?” Varys asked, stepping closer. He made himself a living barrier between Tyrion and the Lord.

“Fucking Sparrows!” Emmon spat on the deck. “The Capital is overrun with them and their violence. My daughter,” his voice shook in the depths of his register, “hangs from the walls of King’s Landing without a head. I almost did not wait for your ships.”

It would have been one man against an empire but Tyrion would have backed him all the same. He turned to Varys and exchanged whispers.

“Hold on your revenge,” Varys implored the man. “Bottle up your rage and wait. The moment is nearly upon us where you will see those that have wronged you-”

“Disembowelled while they are still alive! When they are done you can feed them to your queen’s dragons for all I care.” Emmon was a man hot for war.

“Does our agreement stand?” Varys pried carefully.

“Do as you fucking will, long as you let me break their necks myself.”

So it was sworn. “Your men will secure the King’s Wood to the South of King’s Landing and allow Queen Daenerys’ army safe passage. Her fleet will remain here.” Varys was interrupted by the distant cry of their dragon. It echoed over the water – a roar on the air that turned Lord Emmon’s head. “Our guard...” Varys added, as Emmon leaned over the side, searching the skies for the dragon. “One of the Queen’s dragons.”

“I did not believe...” Emmon admitted. He knew the dragons were real but no one in _Westeros_ had seen one for a hundred and fifty years. “Are you su-” He did not get to finish. Rising out of the mist, _Rhaegal_ appeared first as a shadow, then as a vision of emerald, dripping water as he beat his wings. “My – by the Seven Gods...”

_Rhaegal_ dribbled water over the ships as he circled above. They could hear his wings on the air and smell the remains of a whale carcass he’d been feasting on nearby.

*~*~*

Tyrion and Varys led a landing party leaving the _Unsullied_ commander in charge of the fleet. Tyrion and Varys wandered the track around the cliffs with a view of the bay as the sharp wind tore at their robes.

“You can feel it too,” Varys noted. “We both fled King’s Landing and now we are here, biting at its heels once more.”

“Do you miss it?” Tyrion asked.

“Honestly? No. I expected to but of all the cities in the realm which I have lived, King’s Landing is by far the most unpleasant. It stinks of death and prayer. Lies and old blood that won’t wash off the stone. Lys… Ah yes. Now those are shores that I miss.” He closed his eyes, remembering the room perched over the _Summer Sea_ with its storms and taverns hollowed directly into the cliffs. These winds did not have that fragrant scent. In fact, he could already smell _King’s Landing_ on the air.

“I don’t miss it either,” Tyrion admitted. “And that is not only because I nearly lost my head in the pit. It had worn thin on me before then. No… I miss Sothoryos. At least it made no pretence of peace.”

Varys started to laugh. “A true lion.” He trailed off before picking up a different thread entirely. “Daario has written to confirm that he holds Dragonstone in the North. There is nowhere for the Crown’s fleet to flee. We will close in on them, trapping the Lannisters in their harbour – cutting off the city from the South and West. That leaves them only the North and the Dragon Gate.”

“But that is currently blocked by the High Sparrow and his zealots.”

“Exactly. By the time the fighting is done, the Sparrows will be dead but we’ll take care to leave them alive long enough to keep the royal family trapped in the South East of King’s Landing. I’ve seen it done before.” Varys withdrew a letter from his sleeve. “From our friend Lord Emmon. Loras Tyrell has ridden past his men in search of the Tyrell army. We are not to engage each other. Olenna has answered for their loyalty to Queen Daenerys as soon as our army arrives.”

“That’s – that’s enough to take the city.”

“You sound surprised.”

The revelation shook Tyrion. Varys _was_ dangerous. He was weaving the future in spider silk. His anchor threads were laid and the spiral inside beginning to form. “We are really going to do this – overthrow a dynasty.” And more than likely, end the Lannister line for good.

“Yes – we _are_. But taking a city and holding it are two very different things. Your sister has friends – rich friends who stand to lose everything. Conquering the city is easy. It’s what comes next that I’m worried about.”

###  **A CAVE – BEYOND THE WALL**

_Bran covered his ears, barley able to stand. He was in a tunnel blocked by an expense of pale wood that dwarfed all that approached the Black Gate. Stretched over its surface was a hideous, withered face. Its dead, wooden eyes were open and its mouth agape in a scream that tapped straight into Bran’s mind. He could feel the pain in every artery. It boiled his blood. Tore at his soul. On and on until he thought his flesh might melt._

_A silver woman brushed by his shoulder. Her slender form pressed against the gate – hands stroking the Weirwood. She was dead. Or living. Between the two… Drenched in magic which caused his world to ripple in and out of focus._

Bran woke from a fever. He was laid on the ground, awkwardly folded between the hungry roots of the _Weirwood_. His hand had slipped, breaking his connection to the vision. With all his strength he pushed himself over, laying on his back where he could breath. Water dripped across his face. It fell like rain from the thousands of fibrous roots dangling over the ceiling. Sometimes he drank from them and in those nights his dreams were wild and uncontrolled maladies of colour.

He was being watched.

“What did you see this time?” Meera asked, kneeling in the filth beside him. She wiped her sleeve over his cheeks, clearing the black water away.

“A man without a face walking through the Haunted Forest.” Bran propped himself up against a twisted root as thick as a horse.

Meera felt the cold more keenly than Bran. Her wolf skins were falling to rags. Even the cave had new ice crystals forming on the roof as though Winter was taking hold. The Three-Eyed Raven did not feel the cold either. He was part of the _Weirwood_. Grown into the ice. Kept alive by magic. “If we do not leave this place soon – we will never leave.” She warned him.

“I can never leave, Meera… I have to learn. _Understand_.”

“Take care, Lord Stark, who you learn _from_.” She did not share her late brother’s faith in the Raven or his whispers. Even Leaf filled her with trepidation. The _Children of the Forest_ were not the joyful spirits they’d been reared on but malevolent fay.

*~*~*

Leaf perched high in the nest of roots overlooking the Three-Eyed Raven. He dreamed. The whites of his eyes sightless. His limbs twitched, itching for freedom against their cage of wood. Leaf remembered carving faces in the soft milk-wood. In her mind the _Weirwoods_ screamed. Their blood was sickly sweet and cursed, crying while the realm of Man wandered by. The trees were always listening but they spilled their secrets too – entrapping things within their roots where they fed their prey with visions.

The trees did not speak to Leaf.

_ Brynden Rivers _ _ was lost in his mind, wandering a misted forest.  _ _ Young, he felt strength in his bones. His silver hair flowed over his steel armour and eyes, red as the fire, picked through the corpses of Weirwoods. The trees returned him here, over and over, the Isle of Faces and all its bloody history.  _ _ They screeched in agony, crying into the pools of shallow water. _

L eaf heard a sharp  _ ‘snap’ _ as one of the roots holding the Raven’s arm split his bone  near the shoulder. The pearl length protruded from his pink flesh, weeping into the wood.  Hungry, the finest of the roots brushed over his skin, bathing themselves in the scarlet sap. Another tendril curled around his throat, lightly  testing the jugular.

_ H e approached one of the pools. Marred by slender stalks of swamp grass and layered with decayed Weirwood leaves, the surface was a dark, imperfect mirror.  Brynden knelt and hovered his palm above the surface.  It started to freeze beneath his hand… _

_A nother hand smashed through the fresh ice and latched onto his. Only then did Brynden notice the face floating beneath the water. Pale and death-like, with long silver hair like his and a set of mismatched eyes. One blue like the soul of ice and the other wildfire green. The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. He pulled her out from the watery grave. Her beauty slipped away with the water leaving melted flesh. Sunken features and a hint of purple within her lips. All Shiera’s masks washed away._

###  **CASTLE BLACK – THE NORTH**

Dacey moved to the window of the small stone room. The living quarters were exactly as she remembered, all those years ago, when Jeor had offered her sanctuary in the frozen outpost. Except the window… That was boarded over recently with planks of cracked _Weirwood_ dug directly out of the ice. Snow gathered at the edges, permeating the cracks – inching into the warmth where it melted into a reflective sheen on the stone. The remains of a vine wove along the mortar – its leaves and blushing buds long vanished. Last time she was here it had been in bloom. A Winter rose. There were many in the far North, rambling across rune stones.

A soft knocked preceded the door groaning open.

“I still can’ believe you’re a-fuckin’-live...” Dacey hissed at her guest.

“The same could be said of you.” Tormund replied, closing the door. He dared not encroach any further into the bear’s den. They were uneasy in each other’s presence. The candles quivered. “It wasn’ just tha’ night. I came back. Fer _years_. I know tha’ island as well as the lands north of The Wall.”

Dacey held up her hand, begging him to stop. She did not wish to hear it. “ _That_ is why I asked you here,” Dacey interrupted. “We have both lived beyond The Wall. I have questions but first I need to be convinced that you and your Freefolk hoard are not here to betray the Northern lands as Wildlings so often do...” Mance she trusted but Tormund?

Tormund smirked, scratching his orange beard. “Mance told me all about you, Dacey.”

Panic flickered in her eyes, hidden by the uneasy candlelight.

“My king, rest his soul, trusted me with your secret _and_ _also_ _with his_ … He knew, like us, tha’ survival does not care for our petty squabbles. We are all First Men in this part o’ the kingdom. We fought the same wars. We’re buried in the fuckin’ ice along with the wolves and the ravens and the bears.” Tormund kept his voice low in case the walls were listening. “I have the very same fears as you.”

“...still...” She was not unmoved by his words.

“Fair enough tha’ yer challenge my honour as a king but I ‘ave a personal interest in remainin’ true to this cause.” He paused. The air freezing between them. “Same as yours.” His head tilted. Eyes searching hers. “A child.”

Dacey backed away until she found herself pressed against the wooden slats. “No...”

“Ay.”

She shook her head slowly. “That can _never_ be known. For either of us.”

“Everyone that knows our secrets is dead ‘cept you and me. I am _well versed_ in the ways of the North.” Tormund felt safe enough to step away from the door. “I always tell people I fucked a bear. They don’ believe me.”


	78. The Burning of Summerhall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Jodie.

 

 

###  **SUMMERHALL RUINS – THE STORMLANDS**

_Quaithe found herself haunted by the Isle of Faces. Row upon row of Weirwood suffocated the marsh, perched atop atolls of swamp grass. Their horrific, weeping eyes created pools of sap, ankle deep which clung at her skin. They smelled of death distilled into resin. A battle raged in the distance. Swords clashed. Leather wings beat the sky fanning flames that birthed storms of smoke. They mingled with the fog, dancing around the white trunks._

_Bittersteel._

_He rested against one of the howling faces in full armour._

_She resisted the urge to fling her body at his feet. He vanished, reappearing a breath from her lips. A hand glid across her hip, eliciting a moan that had no place in her thoughts. Quaithe warmed to the touch. This is how she remembered him. Dark hair and fierce eyes that locked with hers. The gods would never allow him to age. He was frozen in this moment, an inch from death._

_It comes as she knows it will. A sword in the dark. Slicing, upwards, through his chest, scattering her lover into shadows._

_A tear hits the water at her feet. The faces change. They whisper amongst themselves, jeering. Bleeding. It is followed by a gentle rustle of wings. Quaithe closed her eyes. She wants to leave this place but the visions have a powerful hold over her. A force is keeping her here that is not her own._

“ _Shiera… Open your eyes...”_

_Afraid. She does not know what version of her other lover waits beyond the veil of darkness. Brynden or the Bloodraven? “I saw what you saw,” she whispered. “I know who Daenerys is – was – might be and what lurks in our line. Westeros is nothing but the tip of a sword.”_

“ _The tip is what pierces the armour. Many times I tried to show you,” Brynden edged toward his half-sister. He is the one holding her here. “This is not a dream, Shiera, nor is it a vision made of memory. I am not in your head – I am in the North, beyond The Wall – a prisoner of these trees.”_

_Her eyes remain tightly closed. There is unmistakable horror concealed in his voice. He shields her from it._

“ _I feel myself fading into them.” He continued. “Not long now… Their branches scratch across my skin like the claws of a bear about to feast.”_

_Quaithe’s throat tightened. Hot tears formed at the crease around her eyes. “You have been dead to me for a lifetime.”_

“ _We are in a place beyond lies.”_

“ _There is no such thing.” She could not hold herself back any longer. Quaithe opened her eyes and found Brynden – a scrawny, silver-haired man with a flare of wine-stained skin. Beautiful in his rake-like form before Bittersteel had taken his eye. His hold over her had not diminished in all the years of silence. “You see?” Her question was soft and sad. “This is a lie. We are both ruined by the world and yet not a scratch of it on our faces.”_

“ _All things wear a mask in death. That is where we hover, Shiera. On the edge of life. We’ll always find each other at the blade.”_

“ _Will I see you again?”_

_Brynden’s gaze turned soft. Despite his sharp features he’d always been the gentler of the brothers. Aegor was drawn to Shiera’s murky soul – he loved the malady of her sorcery. Brynden knew her goodness. “No. My mortal flesh is done but you can always find me in the trees...”_

_Another tear. “All I hear is their screams.”_

“ _And all I hear are yours, raging from the flames.”_

Quaithe startled into life, gripping her throat. Her heart throbbed in agony against her chest while the scented drapes covering the litter blurred her vision of the world. For a moment the mist lingered until she realised that it was _real_.

*~*~*

The Queen’s convoy stopped at the base of the mountains where the _Boneway_ tapered off into an indiscernible smear. The _Red Mountains_ were at their most striking – nearing scarlet as though made from the tail of a falling star. It was easy to see why the Targaryens had chosen this position for their crowning palace – it was surrounded by a wall of flaming hills and a sky that never settled.

Its air of drama turned macabre...

_Summerhall’s_ carefully constructed gardens and layered avenues had spun themselves into a foreboding forest that wrapped around the remaining framework of stone. The famous path leading directly to the castle was wild with its pairs of aging elms woven at their crests while many of the striking ‘V’ branches had snapped off in the _Stormland_ winds and lay broken on the ground.

A _crunch_ underfoot betrayed a hidden drive of cut-marble and scraps of blushing stone all consumed by the thick carpet of wild marsh grass. Purple-headed weed rippled with the mist that many fearful eyes mistook for smoke.

Framed behind this maelstrom were the jagged remains of the building itself. Like burned hands, pieces of wall reached out with the blackened fingers of a _Rhoynar_ beast. Moments of beauty were covered in soot and then strangled with fresh layers of vegetation. An entire _Godswood_ grew within the heart of _Summerhall_ complete with several _Weirwood_ whose pale bark appeared as shrikes against the black.

Quaithe counted the ghostly trees. Seven. One for each egg that perished in the flames.

Queen Daenerys slid from her mare and, barefoot, approached the wreck. Her knight fell in step behind, leading both horses gently by the reins. They dipped their heads toward the rectangular pools of water but Jorah would not let them drink. The rest of their convoy fanned out on the flat ground and began preparations for camp.

“Khaleesi...” Jorah warned, softly. “There could be thieves hiding in the ruins. Allow me to send men in first.”

She would not be deterred. “Nothing lives here but the trees...” Daenerys replied. “Feel it? There is a stain of magic in the air. It whispered through the mountains to me. I could hear it the moment we reached the shores of Westeros.”

“Sometimes I feel it,” he admitted. The runes beneath his skin itched with the failed sorcery that brought _Summerhall_ to an end.

“The ashes of my family lay within these walls,” she continued, picking her way carefully under the avenue of creaking limbs. Up close, they were brutally damaged – scarred and withered with jagged burns from lightning strikes. Either the gods were furious or they loved to watch life burn. “Rhaegar was born here.”

“I know.” Jorah replied softly. “The stories of Summerhall reached as far as Bear Island. They were told in _victory_ by men who should have known better than to toast the death of children.” Jorah could not read her intentions and he wasn’t sure that he liked the way her hands brushed the rough bark. His Queen was edging closer to the gods and surely, to death itself. “What do you intend?” He asked. “There is nothing left in this place except the wailing of ghosts. Those are no good to you. I think they drove your brother a little mad.” He warned.

She could not accurately express her reason. “I am not certain. My visions do not always share detail. When I see Summerhall in their depths it is always as ash – already perished. It is cold and dead. I have no illusions of bringing it life.”

They reached the marble stairs that swept elegantly to the front door, caught in a cascade of lichen. The dragon-capped bannister was covered in veils of moss while the chorus of frogs screaming from every shadow silenced fearfully as they moved closer. Shreds of the ancient Targaryen banners hung from the trees like pieces of flayed skin. Daenerys cast her eyes over them and imagined her sigil in equal ruin – buried in ice.

Jorah left the horses at the base of the stairs and offered the Queen his arm. She placed her delicate hand over the leather straps wrapped around his skin. Together they climbed to the top and found a gaping wound where the doors should have been. They could hear the banners in the wind and the groan of branches against the rock.

“It is barely standing.” Jorah touched one of the stones near the doorway that had been split apart by swollen roots. “Indeed, one might wager that the forest is holding up the walls.” Parts of it had been turned to glass, melted in the inferno. These caught the light transforming the ground into an odd reverie of misshapen stars caught on the wrong side of night.

Daenerys slipped away from Jorah’s hold. She edged through the door and scrambled over the rubble. Her bare feet turned green and black.

“Careful, Khaleesi...” Jorah followed. “More Targaryens have died here than anywhere else in Westeros. Do not add your name to that list.”

“The only person keeping a list is that wolf-girl and my name is not on it.” Daenerys knew well where she died and it was not in the ruins of _Summerhall_. Inside the palace there was no roof except that of the trees. “There is power in the blood of kings. Summerhall is drenched in it.” They entered what was once the main hall. An iron chandelier lay at their feet with thick spider webs dragged between the bars. “Seven dragon eggs,” she began, leading Jorah deeper into the maze, “the last in Westeros taken from sickly, cat-sized creatures dying in the Red Keep.”

“Captivity kills dragons.”

“Is that a warning for me or my dragons?” She could not tell. Ser Jorah guarded his words, even from her. Finally she stopped, eyeing the porcelain bark. The line of _Weirwood_ looked like the ribs of a corpse. “Bring me the mage, I would speak with him.”

*~*~*

“You are awake?” Jorah found Quaithe lingering at the edge of the overrun avenue. She was staring at the collapsing ruin but her golden mask hid the tears that were running down her flesh. In all the years that had passed part of her had managed to deny that night. She pretended that the flames in her dreams were nothing but tricks of the mind. Yet here it was. Solid. Real. Undeniable. _Summerhall_ burned and with it her soul.

“Why has the Queen brought us here, of all places?” Quaithe could not fathom _why_.

“I am not sure but I suspect she intends to wake magic from this corpse. What?” He added, when Quaithe reached out and snapped her sharp hand around his arm.

“I would speak with her.”

“She has not asked for you.” Jorah felt his skin burn at her touch – painfully so. “Let go.”

“The Queen will want to hear me. This, she owes.”

*~*~*

Jorah did not know what to say when he appeared before the Queen with Marwyn, Quaithe and Sam in tow.

Ash was in a sack carried by Sam. The dragon was restless, squawking like a bird.

“My apologies. They insisted.” Jorah offered.

“Let the dragon go.” Daenerys nodded at Sam, who obeyed and placed the sack on the ground. As soon as the ropes were loosened, Ash scrambled out and vanished into the forest. Inside _Summerhall_ they were completely cut off from the army. “Think carefully about staying.” Sam exchanged a look with Marwyn but no one left. “Do you have something to say to me?” She asked Quaithe.

“Not in front of _them._ ”

“Yes, in front of them.” Daenerys insisted. “I am done with schemes and lies.”

The metal pieces on Quaithe’s mask rustled. “My Queen, _my kin_ , maesters are not to be trusted. They _hate_ magic more than you can imagine. You are standing in proof of it. They may bow and cower to your vanity but their minds are full of rot, entrenched by the institution that birthed them.”

“I know,” Marwyn interrupted. “I have lived with their kind all my life and you are right, Quaithe. Yes, I know exactly who you are. I have seen you before, a long time ago when I was a scrap of a boy seeking mystery at the edges of the world. Let me assure you that I am _not_ that kind of maester – neither is Sam.” For all his easy airs, Marwyn was a dangerous, capable player who had seen more of the truth than most. “Asshai is a beast of a place but we have all been there – well, except for Sam but he has merits of his own. He lit the glass candles beneath the Citadel and slew a creature made of ice beyond The Wall.” Marwyn took a bold step forward and _knelt_ before Quaithe in honest submission. “You are a daughter of a king and whether you wish it or not, I serve you too.”

Sam’s eyes went wide. “ _She’s_ a Targaryen?”

Marwyn nodded before struggling to his feet. “Oh yes and she was here the night Summerhall burned. Have you _ever_ told the truth – is that what you have come to tell the Queen?”

“Whatever it is you intend,” Quaithe ignored Marwyn and turned to the Queen, rattled. Her hands trembled but her voice held steady. “This is no place for magic. It is too dangerous. Anywhere but here. I beg you.”

“It has to be here,” Daenerys insisted, slipping away from them. “This is the place of our greatest misery. I came here to redeem it into something greater. Did you bring them?” Her knight nodded, moving forward with a leather wrapping. “Follow me.”

Daenerys took them all deeper until they came face to face with one of the _Weirwood_ trees. It was young and strong with smooth bark and no horrific face. There were no _Children of the Forest_ to carve them any more and somehow that made these seven trees more powerful.

“Place the candles behind me,” she directed Ser Jorah, who followed her order without question.

“Say it...” Marwyn closed in on Quaithe.

“She does not need to.” Daenerys answered instead, though she kept her eyes on the tree. “Have the gods have punished you?”

“Beyond words.” Quaithe whispered.

“Help me, then, all of you. When we walk out of these ruins it will be with a new dragon. Ash is born here, by my hand. A child of _Summerhall_. I am finishing what you started, Quaithe.”

“Yes, my Queen...” They all murmured.

Jorah unsheathed the candles and stood them in the undergrowth, building the leaves around them to keep them upright. “Why the candles?” He asked. They were heavy in his hands and none of them a perfect black. The closer her looked the more he noticed their wisps of charcoal trapped in the glass. He _knew_ Daenerys. She wasn’t here solely to falsify the birth of a dragon. He recognised the mad glint in her eyes. He’d seen it before in the _Great Grass Sea_ right before she mounted a pyre.

“As you said, we do not know what eyes watch from the other side. Whoever those eyes belong to – whoever is watching – I want them all to see what is coming for them.”

Daenerys faced the arc of candles. One by one they lit in her presence. Images shimmered across the cut glass. The magic locked in the ruins fed into her bones. There was power in the _House of the Undying_ and the burning hall of the _Temple of the White Lion_ but here, where so much blood soaked the ash lay at her feet, her visions were at their strongest. She was doing everything to keep them from her waking world but now Daenerys was about to welcome them.

“I am Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons and you will hear my name until the end of time.”

Jorah returned to stand with the others leaving the Queen on her own in front of the centre _Weirwood_. The other six were nearby, grown from the shattered eggshells. Seven trees for seven gods and all of them looked the same. Even that set him ill at ease. Who planted them? Was it Rhaegar trying to find poetry in death? Is that who Daenerys was looking for?

“Your sword, Mormont.”

His Queen never called him that so he assumed it was for the benefit of those watching through the candles. He unsheathed _Dawn_ and carried it to her, laid elegantly over both his palms. The blade was milky, near grey in the filtered light. He had a thousand questions but dared none of them. She wrapped her hand around the handle and then asked him to step away, which he did.

Marwyn was transfixed, aroused by her blatant display of power. Too long had magic festered in the dark. Sam – he knew this feeling from _Castle Black_ when the Red Witch hissed her incantations. Quaithe – Quaithe shook in terror.

Daenerys took a measured step backwards, adjusting her weight with the heavy sword pointed toward the heart of the _Weirwood_. Her hands were steady. Her heart – between beats. The ghosts of her ancestors watched on from their shallow graves. Her enemies lingered at glass curtains.

She lurched forward, violently piercing the bark with _Dawn_. The blade slid cleanly through until only the handle remained. A sharp _snap_ ripped the air apart then thunder, booming over the ruin. It reverberated so hard that parts of the wall tumbled around them forcing Sam to stumble out of the way. The rest of them ducked – Quaithe fell to her knees.

Then it happened.

Jorah had witnessed her do many things but never this. Maybe he was wrong and Daenerys was not a queen but a god made flesh.

A green flame erupted from the wound where the sword and tree met. It raced out, engulfing the _Weirwood_ in a burning hell that raged without heat. The bark was undamaged, white as pearl beneath the fire. One by one, it spread to the other six trees until all were alight. Daenerys leaned in to the tree and placed her lips on the bark where a thick river of sap dribbled out. The flames melded harmlessly with her skin as she closed her eyes and drank from the _Weirwood_.

It was an abomination. The Queen was drinking from the tears of the sacred trees. It was forbidden but she cared _nothing_ for the old rules and even less for the new. She drew back and wiped the edge of her lips which carried a black stain. The flames had grown, stretching well above the roof. The sticky liquid in her throat tasted of foul perfume, decay and ice.

Quaithe tried to move to her but Jorah grabbed her roughly and dragged her back. “We do as we are told!” He hissed at her.

The flames changed, producing heat but Daenerys could not tell if this was real or part of a vision that was threatening to take over her conscious. Fighting the pull was impossible. In an instant the green flames shifted to red. The forest burned away and the inferno melted the remaining stone. _Summerhall_ became rivers of fire that ran by her feet. A dragon sang. Ash. All the dragons sang to the _Weirwood_.

Screaming.

Daenerys turned to find her company gone, replaced by Targaryens racing through the flames, tearing at their clothes with hysterical shrieks. Quaithe was there, back against a wall about to burn. The flames of _Wildfire_ spilled over the floor toward her, climbing through pools of green. They caught her flowing robes. Reached into her silver hair…

The flames evaporated. _Summerhall_ became young ruin with saplings and the beginnings of life. A boy scampered over the soot and perched on the remains of a window. He sings – mournfully.

“Rhaegar?” Daenerys whispered, tilting her head. The boy turned – offered up a smile as though he could see her ghost. Perhaps he could. The future and the past were the same thing to the _Weirwood_.

“ _Daenerys!”_

The voice  was distant. Part of the smoke. She  paid it no attention.

Rhaegar’s song continued but now the flames  had bled from one vision into the next.  This is different from her dreams. The world is  _solid_ . Even the ground beneath gives her purchase, allowing her to walk forward until she, too, is leaning against the window  with the child .  He looks nothing like Vis e rys. Where his bones tapered to narrow joins, Rhaegar’s stretched into firm, bold edges fit for the face of a king.  He was the one born for the crown, not her.

The song stopped.

“Look after him.” The boy asked, kicking his legs against the rock. They are words between a shadow and a ghost.

“Who?” Daenerys asked. “Name them and I swear it.”

“My boy...” Rhaegar held a stone in his hand. He chipped it against the wall of _Summerhall_ leaving gashes in the rock which bled  like the eyes of the trees.

* ~*~*

S am was the first to roll out of the carnage of flame and smoke.  F ire had taken hold of  _Summerhall_ for the second time, incinerating  the remains with violent bursts of unnatural flame that appeared to burn green at its heart – fuelled by magic.

T he steps leading up to the inferno were covered in  the Queen’s terrified  soldiers. A dozen hands reached for Sam, spiriting him away from danger and onto a spot of grass near  the water. Gilly was on him at once, splashing his face.  He wanted to push her away but his senses were overrun. All he could do was lay there and stare at the sky  while it turned from blue to grey.

J orah carried Quaithe from the flames. She was limp in his arms, passed out  from fright. The edges of her mask had slipped revealing a tiny slither of ruined  skin . He transferred her to the arms of a  _Dothraki_ blood rider and then ducked straight back into the billowing smoke  amid the howled protests of his men.  None could follow. The heat pushed them back.

“Marwyn!” Jorah shouted, covering his face with his arm. It did little to combat the filthy air that tried, with every breath, to choke the life from him. There was heat now. The green flames were harmless enough but the orange monsters working their way around the walls were real. They snapped at him like hungry vipers.

C oughing to his left revealed the large man, doubled over.

“Get up!” Jorah grabbed onto his arms and hauled with all his strength. “Up or die here, I’ll not carry you.” Jorah managed to get the man moving though Marwyn made a final move for a glass candle that had not entirely perished. “Forget them, you fool – they are gone.” The candles had melted into shimmering pools and lay in the ash like black tears. Jorah wondered if that had been his Queen’s intention all along.

A s the air thickened, Marwyn managed to amble toward the light on his own and escaped the flames leaving only Jorah and Daenerys  tapped inside  _Summerhall_ .

*~*~*

“They’re still in there!” Darkstar fronted the flames but like the others, found himself unable to push through the burning wall.

“ _Nothing_ is in there that’s still alive,” Marwyn coughed out the contents of his lungs over the steps.

“The _Queen_ is in there.”  Darkstar reared toward the flames again.

“Then the Queen is _dead_.”

E verybody turned away from  _Summerhall_ and looked to ward the sky. Two of the Queen’s dragons had come swooping from the mountains. They screeched mournfully, flying toward  _Summerhall_ .  Once overhead they circled then did the unthinkable – opening their mouths to jets of fresh dragon fire.

“Stop! _Stop!_ ” Darkstar waved his hands frantically at the beasts but they were caught up in the frenzy.

* ~*~*

Once Jorah fell he could not find his  way  back up. The smoke was oppressive. It forced his face into the leaves  which had dried to a bitter layer of crumble against which his last breaths gasped. There was a red glow on all sides, each indiscernible from the next. He could not remember which way to run.  W ith every breath of poisoned air he cared less. Sleep beckoned. No, not sleep. Death.  It had courted him once before and he remembered the touch of its lips.

A ll Jorah could do was roll onto his back. He refused to die facing the earth.

He could see the flames, pushing through the veil of smoke. His limbs were too heavy to lift so instead he watched with a morbid fascination. They danced for him. Twisting and curling.  One went for his hand but at the last moment, recoiled.  Jorah thought it a trick of the light until it happened again – the hungry flames diverting at the last moment, refusing to touch his skin.

Jorah looked more closely at his hand and found the runes near black. _Her blood._ Fire had never laid a hand on his Queen and now it shied away from him.  He tested his theory – swiping his hand through a fresh column of fire. It jeered away from him angrily. _Harmless_.

Well _fuck…_

Renewed, Jorah forced his body to stand. The fire bent around him, keeping him cocooned in its terrifying veil of flame. He moved cautiously, pressing deeper into _Summerhall_ until his world was a blur of light. It was surreal, standing in the depths of something no man was meant to see. In its own way there was beauty and the lick of flame consuming the forest gave off its own type of song. A cracking. Like ice.

Indeed it was a song that Jorah heard first. A mournful dragon cry cutting through the fire.

He found Ash clawing one of the _Weirwood_ trees that was still alight with the green fire. Daenerys was nearby standing in front of the sword. Jorah watched as she wrapped both her hands firmly around the hilt and dragged it back from the tree. The moment the two parted, the green flames were sucked back into the _Weirwood._

*~*~*

The sword was heavy in her hands and dripping sap at her feet. For a moment she does nothing but stare at the pools of black. This has happened before. She has seen it. In her dreams… Except instead of ash she remembers snow… There was a storm of ice. Daenerys lifted her eyes and found a squall of smoke, churning.

A bear emerged from its depths. _Jorah_.


	79. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, *slight* error in judgement. I foolishly thought this would be a two part series when I started but surprise - it's three parts. Please, if you have a moment and you're enjoying the ride, leave a review or tap on the kudos button. This is the longest thing I have ever written and your comments really help me keep faith even if they just say, 'yo'. ❤
> 
> Also... I made a small error with dates back in chapter, 'For the Birds'. I had to remove a small paragraph and slot it into here instead so no, it's not deja vu - just a writer who needs a bigger flow chart.
> 
> Part III will begin shortly.

 

###  **SUMMERHALL RUINS – THE STORMLANDS**

A queen walked into _Summerhall_ but a god strode out with a scarlet dragon wrapped in her arms purring smoke. The heat had stripped away her dress leaving Daenerys naked against the wall of fresh air which fanned the flames behind. There was a roar coming off the stone as though it were screaming.

_Drogon_ and _Viserion_ shifted restlessly near the ruin, flexing their wings irritably as they caught sight of _Ash_. They had never seen another dragon and so lifted their noses, trying to catch her scent between the ribbons of smoke. Daenerys cast them a warning glance, demanding that they quiet which they did, dipping their heads toward the ground. They snapped at each other, knocking a few scales loose. Their bodies were swollen from feasting in the mountains, especially _Drogon_ who had added half a dozen feet to his size.

A second figure emerged beside the Queen carrying nothing except a glowing greatsword. The intensity of the fire heated the milkglass blade into pale pink, like the final gasp of a sunset or the first embers of dawn. Jorah’s skin was corrupted by ancient blood runes, scarring him like a roll of parchment, almost beyond recognition. Soot blackened his flesh while tracks of sweat created lightning patterns down his back.

Daenerys’ army cowered before the scene, bending the knee so fast their limbs crumbled into the soft earth. This was not the first time that the _Dothraki_ had witnessed Daenerys survive a fire but the _Unsullied_ and _Dornish_ soldiers had no words for what they saw. Any foreign allegiance – any breath of doubt – evaporated. Their hearts were hers. Their souls and their lives. They’d follow her to the end of the world and gladly vault into Death’s waiting jaws.

Everything was silent except for the smouldering ruin of _Summerhall_.

*~*~*

Shaken, Marwyn sat with Quaithe. She had seen so many Targaryens burn that she had lost faith in the Queen’s magic but there Daenerys stood – alive with her knight.

“Daenerys should be dead. They should _both_ be dead.” He muttered. “Who is she?” Marwyn grimaced at his peeling skin. It was agony. There were blisters forming on his arm where he’d brushed too close to the flames. He smelled like one of those vile _R’hllor_ pyres stacked high with living sacrifices while his lungs choked on every breath. Death had come for him in that fire. He’d felt the end and the darkness beyond. For one moment all he had heard was the distant lap of waves against a drowned shore. “I have studied magic _all my life_ ,” he fought each word from his throat, “from one end of the world to the next but this goes beyond recorded history.”

“There were Valyrians who could withstand the flame from their dragons and a handful of riders who walked unharmed from burning fields...”

“ _Ancient_ Valyrians. Remarkable as that particular gift is, I am talking about the Weirwood… She set them aflame... It came from _her_.”

“From the sword.” Quaithe corrected. “It has its own heart of magic.”

If anything, Marwyn was more afraid than ever. “Tell me… If we are to follow the Queen into battle, where will I be led?”

“You are either loyal or you are not, Marwyn.” Quaithe replied.

“Oh, I’m loyal. Loyalist-fucker in the seven kingdoms but that does _not_ answer my question.”

“I suspect you can answer that question for yourself.” Quaithe reached for Marwyn’s arm and grabbed it, pressing painfully against his fresh burns. She hauled him closer and hissed the rest. _“_ _You are wrong to think I do not remember you from Asshai._ ”

“You are hurting me! Let go!” He shifted but every movement threatened to tear at his flesh. “Reading that extract cost me everything...” It had been worth it – to run his hand down the fragile sheet and read, for himself, a direct translation of the prophecy. “Who is she, Quaithe? Daenerys is _not_ Azor Ahai. That much I know.”

“No, she is not.” Quaithe released her hold on Marwyn and regretted her anger. She watched him cup his wrist gently and wince at a thick layer of skin that hung loose. “Let me see to that...”

“I’ll see to it myself.” Marwyn shook his head. He’d have nothing from the sorceress today. His maester robes stirred too many ill memories for her, especially in this place. “Who saved you from the flames?”

His question caught her off guard. “The Mormont knight…?”

“No. The first time. Who dragged you from the fire at Summerhall?”

“Another knight… The greatest to ever live, some say. All I remember were his sad blue eyes, searching the world but finding nothing but the sky echoed back.”

“Ser Barristan Selmy was there… That explains his account of the night. He served with our queen too, until he was slain. Daenerys has attracted powerful allies and honourable friends. Until you decide to share what you know of her, that will be enough for me. Who am I to question the honour of such men? Wielding swords is an honest trade. At least knights look their kills in the eye before the head comes off. I’ve no patience for the whisperers – those that cling to the shadows of the world...”

Quaithe waited until Marwyn retreated toward the camp before adding, “It cycles – war – like the seasons. People too. The great ones – the ones that matter. They die and rise with the dawn.”

His look was dark. She did not trust him and for the moment that left their wills at an impasse.

*~*~*

The Queen was approached by fearful _Dothraki_ women who draped a scarlet cloak around her shoulders and led her down the stairs. _Ash_ remained nestled in her arms, whipping his tail sharply from side to side. His spines caught her skin. The wounds appeared on Jorah’s torso but the filth covered any trace of the scratches.

Jorah descended the steps on his own and dropped the fiery sword to the grass where it smoked. _Darkstar_ was the only one who dared stand before him, offering him clothes. “Is she a god or a demon?” He asked, both sombre and shaken.

“Is there a difference?” Jorah asked, slipping his heavy black cape over his shoulders.

“And what does that make you? We saw you walk out of those flames.” The hilt of the sword was so hot Darkstar had to wrap cloth around it to pick it up. “You are no dragon. What kind of sorcery have you employed? Is it a trick to tame her army?”

“Are you always brimming with such questions?” Jorah grumbled. He preferred not to speak at all.

“No, actually. I rarely speak but you have given me cause.”

“It is the Queen’s magic that saved my skin – not mine.” In essence it was the truth.

They walked together into camp, following a little way behind the Queen and her ladies. Thousands of eyes watched their progress. Terror and awe were a powerful match for loyalty. Darkstar carried the sword, holding it away from his body as its heat continued to radiate. “Then it is blood magic.”

Jorah dipped his head. There was no point lying. “The Queen is _not_ a god,” Jorah continued, “she was put here to _challenge_ the gods.”

“And we are to stand beside her, in defiance of these gods?”

“We stand in defence of life,” Jorah corrected him. “It is a long road to Death’s pale gates. If you live long enough, you will look upon them with your own eyes, swear the words and pass into the veil of shadows.”

*~*~*

“You’re hurt.”

“Not really, honest.” Sam replied, as Gilly fussed over him. “Mostly jus’ soot an’ all. See? Bit of singed robes an’ that’s about it. Ow...” His protest turned unconvincing when Gilly found a weeping blister at the side of his neck. “Except for that.”

“She nearly killed you, Sam.”

“Oh – I don’ think that was her intention.”

“That is even _worse_. She didn’ care if you died.”

“It wasn’ like that.” He insisted, hissing and gasping through Gilly’s attentions. “Besides, it is not the Queen I’m worried about.” Sam watched Gilly pull away from him with a curious look. “We’re headin’ ter King’s Landing for a war. I might not know much about the Capital at the moment but I know more than I’d like about my father. If there’s a fight he’ll be there. On the other side ter us.”

“You’re worried that you might have to fight your father?”

“Not personally but… All things considered the Queen is like’ to win and Targaryen conquerors do not ‘ave a fantastic track record when it comes to keeping their old enemies alive.”

“He sent you to The Wall.”

“Yes.”

“He stripped you of your family name.”

“Aye.”

“You _hate_ him.”

“I am at peace with his fate, Gilly but what about the rest of my family? They’ll die too. For honour’s sake.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure I can live with it. Right at this moment I am helping a Queen, possibly even a tyrant, tear apart the kingdom when I should be in the North, with Jon, guarding The Wall.”

“Listen to me, Sam.” Gilly took his head firmly in her hands, making sure that his eyes met hers. “Jon sent you here to learn what you must to stop the Long Night. Your saw what the dragon Queen did. If anyone has the power to help Jon defeat those monsters it is _her._ To get her to The Wall we must first help her win King’s Landing. Only when her lust for the throne is sated will she cast her eye in our direction. It is your job to keep her alive and mine – to keep _you_ alive. So I am telling you – be careful how close to the flames you stand.”

###  **SHARP POINT – BLACKWATER BAY**

“Is something wrong?” Tyrion inquired, when his drinking companion soured at the opening of a letter. He rarely saw the Spider take such offence at splotches of ink but on this occasion he was dismal.

“A name I hoped never to encounter personally has ensconced themselves in the Queen’s convoy.”

“Do I get a hint or is watching me guess your entertainment for the evening?” Tyrion was a half a dozen glasses into the evening’s festivities and in such a bleak corner of the world there was little else to do. Though they occupied a spacious area of the castle it was wall-to-wall nothingness with a solitary tapestry, faded beyond recognition, left to break the monotone. The wide candles were left on naked tables and as night settled they bled over the surface – their innards glowing as the wicks sank.

“An Archmaester from the Citadel.”

“I did not realise the Citadel had chosen to enforce the Queen’s legitimacy.”

“They haven’t. Marwyn’s a loner. An overtly ambitious, overreaching manipulator with a boundless talent for lies and a stamina in dishonesty I’ve not encountered since Baelish wiped his hands on the Crown’s purse.”

“So, you’re fond of him?”

Varys’ look dripped ire. “He is a practitioner of _magic_. Rumour has that he burned part of the Citadel down a few weeks ago – for reasons no one can ascertain – and now he’s reappeared at the Queen’s side.”

“You’re _jealous_.”

“You’re drunk. As usual.”

Tyrion held up his glass in admonishment. “This? Are you joking? Piss-weak water from the bay, more like.”

Varys was unhappy. “Rumour has it that Marwyn drinks about as much as you. You two would get along. Yes… I can almost picture the image in all its wretched detail.”

“He sounds better and better.” Though the assessment did not fit entirely well with Tyrion. He trusted Varys’ judgement – often against his own otherwise he’d have told the Queen long ago about Missandei’s grim fate. “He did not write to introduce himself, I take it?”

“No. That he did not. There’s been-” Varys searched for an accurate word, “-an event. The Queen made camp at the Summerhall ruins and performed a magical ritual. Here – you can read the details for yourself.” Varys leaned over, passing the parchment across.

“Another dragon?” Tyrion gasped. “How is that possible?”

“It’s not.” Varys snatched it back. “There was nothing left of the eggs in Summerhall. The place has been picked clean by thieves for decades. This is Marwyn’s doing. I don’t know how but it is. The last thing we need right now is an infant dragon. Three is more than sufficient to take King’s Landing. Are you smiling?” He accused.

Tyrion was. “I have never seen a dragon new from its egg. The Queen’s were monsters already when I laid eyes on them.”

“Then you can look after it...” Varys muttered. “That’s all it will be good for. Did you read the rest?”

Tyrion nodded. “The Queen is beyond your gently guiding hand. She has her own ideas about how to inspire hearts.”

“That may be so but she still needs to inspire surly lords and wealthy foes. Those heads do not turn easily.”

“Unless they come off...”

“Sometimes I forget that you are a Lannister.”

###  **THE EYRIE – THE VALE OF ARRYN**

Lord Royce filled the throne, draping himself over the awkward construction while he waited for the castle doors to open. They peeled inward, dragged by two men on each side. Like everything else in _The Eyrie_ they were construct of solid stone. He’d even seen the scar left in the mountain from their birth.

“Wings ride faster than hooves, Ser Clegane.” Royce announced, as the enormous knight strutted across the polished floor leaving puddles. The sleet fell heavier outside, drowning the world with its misery. Clegane turned but Royce held the piece of parchment aloft. “The Lady Stark, Queen of Winter writes with an alternative to your noble sacrifice. One which I have accepted.”

“I am ‘ere for the Little-Cunt.”

“And you shall have him. Take a seat. Wine – if you like. I am having Lord Baelish brought from the cells as we speak.”

*~*~*

Petyr’s initial strength had been dragged from his veins – sucked straight from his skin and now he laid on his back, the floor of the sky cell feasting on the remains of his pride. It was the perpetual cold. Ice collected at his extremities. It numbed his usual clarity leaving him adrift. That is what this felt like. Floating in the sea as a child, caught in the veil between the depths and the sun. Petyr managed the faintest smile. What else was life but a negotiation between extremes?

His thoughts congealed.

Mostly, he thought of Cat. His Cat – not the spiteful creature Ned turned her into with his boastings of infidelity. Stealing her into the North had destroyed the best parts of the _Riverlands_ girl. He had watched it unfold from the shadows. Every year a little more of her was shut away until she was hard enough to face the rest of the Northerners as their equal and yet they treated her as an outsider. You were either the Blood of the First Men or Andal scum.

Then Littlefinger was in his brothels. Women and men writhed in every corner. Money trickled into his pockets while some of the braver whores took turns at ensnaring him. They were always unsuccessful. Only a fool fucked their own whores. He had no intention of awarding them such power.

Finally, he found himself staring down Cersei Lannister as she had her men drag him up by the collar and threaten his life. Cersei… Now there was someone he’d take pleasure in fucking. Fucking with their life… He wanted to see her empire crumble and be there as she choked on the ashes.

_Slap_.

Petyr’s left eye opened. The world was a blur.

_Slap._

Harder this time. The blood running from his nose was scalding. He sat up and fell immediately back to the stone.

‘ _Fuckin’ pick the bugger up already!’_

The guards dragged him inside where the warmer air woke his nerves. He was stashed near a fire under guard while one of them fetched clean clothes. They were thrown at his feet shortly after. _Ah, his old cloak…_ Petyr’s mind was still partially frozen so he focused on defrosting his skin and dressing. He briefly wondered why it was important for him to dress for the occasion. He worried that it was in honour of his impending death.

‘ _That’s enough now. Take him.”_

Petyr clutched his face for a moment, digging his fingers into the sallow skin. He was sure that frost fell off or perhaps it was salt, crusted there from the storm-spray.

“You look like _shit_ , Baelish...” An oddly family voice drawled, as Petyr was led into the stone holding area in the main hall.

The Moondoor was wide open, filling the vaulted area with an all too familiar chill. He twisted his head, seeking the source of the words. His first reaction was to laugh. The little bird’s lap dog could only mean a trial by combat. “Did you come here to die, Clegane?”

“For you? Fuck that.” Clegane replied, shifting. His sword was nearly as long as Baelish was tall.

The Hound was wearing full plated armour, giving away the truth. He _was_ here for a trial by combat but someone had changed the terms. The smug curl of Lord Royce’s lip filled Petyr with dread. Whatever the deal was, he’d have preferred to face the sword. At least steel offered a clear result.

“Lord Baelish...” Lord Royce invited the other man to step forward, which he did – chains dragging. “An agreement has been reached. The Lords of the Vale, hereby represented, have agreed to terms offered by Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Queen of the North. Despite ongoing suspicions of your actions your trial has been put on stay while ever the terms of the agreement are met. This is not a dismissal or a ruling. Should either party break ranks you will be re-arrested and brought before us, is that understood?”

_Survive._ “Yes. What are the terms?”

“They are of no concern of yours. Ser Clegane will return you to Winterfell. Take care you do so fast. The Vale is not a safe roost for you.”

*~*~*

Petyr had to have his legs lashed to his horse. He gripped the reins, begging his strength to return. The mountain pass was treacherous. How easy it would be for the Hound to set him off a cliff. His dark beard provided a barrier against the worst of the howling wind but when the sleet started he realised how truly wearing Winter could be. It was wet – freezing – bone curdling…

“What were the terms?” He asked the Hound.

“No fucking clue,” Sandor replied, clicking at his horse when it veered toward a patch of ice. The mountains around them looked as though they’d been cleaved apart by a battle between the sea and fire. Their black peaks were blades and the valleys so deep they hid from the sun. “I came ‘ere to throw some poor bastard out that Moondoor.”

“Trial by combat was the intention...” His eyes drifted to the landscape. “You’d have won.”

“Of course.”

“So why offer treaty?” Petyr shook his head. This didn’t sit right with him. “Sansa must want something other than my head on my shoulders.”

###  **WINTERFELL – THE NORTH**

Strings of snow-eagle feathers hung from the pines. They swayed with the snow, twisting and rocking. To them, Podrick added a few strips of white lace. He tied the delicate material in perfect bows on the lowest branches.

Brienne watched through the heavy snow. To her right, the scarlet leaves of the _Weirwood_ creaked ominously under the weight of ice. It resisted the pull of Winter while the pool of heated water smouldered at its roots, reflecting the eerie scene in its black waters.

“Don’ think he learned that from you.” Bronn approached. Like Brienne he wore full armour with a ceremonial silver cloak lapping at his heels.

She was uneasy around Bronn but Podrick had already vouched for his honour and warned her of his manners. “Certainly not.”

“Sometimes I think he’s too soft for all this shit. He should be in the South – find a decent trade and a good woman.”

“You are fond of him.”

“Regrettably. A sentiment we share.”

“This is no time for a wedding.” Brienne leaned backwards, letting the tree’s girth take her weight. She had begun oiling her armour to stop the frost sticking. The cold hid the stench of animal fat but not the dulled look.

“I knew that girl when she was a child.” Bronn added. “Before the world ruined her. She was swept up in the will of ambitious men, endured the depths of cruelty for the sake of it but now she’s the one changing the course of the tide. Take care that your desire to protect her does not take you out of step with her schemes.”

“If I want your advice I will ask.”

Bronn only smiled in reply. “I get it.”

“Get _what_?”

“What he sees in you. Honour is most alluring to those who have none.”

###  **SUMMERHALL RUINS – THE STORMLANDS**

“Are we going to talk about...” Jorah loomed at the edge of her tent. On the flat ground the structure seemed larger with its support poles strong, holding sweeps of red fabric in place. They were alone. The queen was dressed in a black robe with a fur-trimmed cloak clipped at her neck with a silver dragon claw. “There is no stepping back from what you have done.” He continued. “This is no longer about a princess reclaiming her birthright. You have made yourself a _god_.”

“I don’t always have _control_ of my actions.” She admitted. “I went into Summerhall to stage the birth of dragon, not to destroy the glass candles or set the place alight. Certainly I am _not_ a god.” Daenerys turned away from Jorah, resenting the very thought that he could believe her guilty of such things. “There was something about that place, Jorah. You did not see. Rhaegar was there. He planted the white trees so that we could speak...”

“Rhaegar was a _fool_.” Jorah cut sharply. “You must not follow his ghost. Let’s pretend you are correct and he planted the Weirwood in the ruins of Summerhall. He was not a seer. Anything he whispered he did with false hope and no knowledge of who those words might reach.”

“No this was important.” Daenerys turned back to her knight. The writing in his skin had faded but even she had trembled at the sight of him, standing beside her in the flame. If she was a god then he must be a demon, dragged out of the fire to serve her. Those are the stories that rippled over the kingdom. “He asked me to look after his boy but Rhaegar’s children are dead. The Mountain cut them to pieces. Everyone knows that. If there are other Targaryens – bastards – alive in the world, I must know.”

“There are _thousands_ of Targaryen bastards. You can find them in every Eastern port. When you walk the streets of King’s Landing you will see their pale skin and violet eyes muddled with the crowd.”

“Ser...” She addressed him firmly. “Do you _know_ if my brother had illegitimate issue?” Jorah shifted uneasily. “Do you?”

“Suspicions are not the same creature as fact.”

“You told me once of the Winterfell bastard. The Stark boy sent to The Wall… Surely this is proof that he-”

“I heed your caution, Khaleesi, to give voice to such rumours only serves to afford them _power_. Any child of Rhaegar’s usurps your claim to the Iron Throne.”

Daenerys set her fierce eyes on him. “But what if it is true? He may be my _blood_.”

“You should speak to Varys.” He deflected. “If anyone knows the truth of whispers, it is him.”

“Jorah – you _swore_ to obey me. That includes answering my questions. Is this conjecture or truth? Is Jon Stark a Targaryen prince?”

“I cannot un-say the words. I hold them back to protect you, not to disobey. You know that must be true.”

She softened slightly but hated that he tested her patience. At least he took care to do it in private. “If I have to command you, you will regret it.”

“No one knows if the child lived,” he began, “or even if there was one. All the whispers say is that Rhaegar loved where he should not – a Stark girl. Eddard’s younger sister, Lyanna Stark.”

“Everyone knows that, Jorah. Robert claimed my brother kidnapped her against her will. Raped her. Killed her.” It was a tale that she struggled to reconcile in her mind but Daenerys was not naive enough to discard it entirely. “You told me so yourself.”

“Those are not the stories we repeat in the North. Robert Baratheon won the war. He spun the stories he wanted the realm to hear. His courageous fight for the woman he loved was honey to the ears of his soldiers but really, Lyanna Stark was Robert’s obsession. Even after her death he’d ride to Winterfell and stare at her statue in the depths of the crypt. Lyanna was a skilled horseman, a dangerous fighter and arguably better than Rhaegar with a sword. This is not the sort of woman a man steals in the night. She’d have carved your brother up and left his innards hanging from the Godwood.”

That earned a slight smile from Daenerys. She was attracted to danger as much as her brother, it would seem. “I agree. Most likely they stole away together.”

“Forsaking honour.” How well Jorah understood. For love they had lost everything – so had he. “But the child Eddard brought back with him from war could have been his own – with Ashara Dayne. That is the other version that is whispered and I assure you, it has its own compelling weight. We cannot know which is true without meeting the boy. Only a handful know the truth of Jon’s birth and even fewer can prove it. One of them was my father but he is dead.”

“Who else?”

“Howland Reed would know. Varys – very probably. Littlefinger might suspect but I doubt he has the proof or he’d have used it already and we cannot trust him enough to ask.”

“What is it?” Daenerys nudged, when Jorah suddenly looked off to the side – considering something.

“Marwyn...” He whispered, almost in disbelief. “The Citadel holds marriage documents. If Rhaegar loved Lyanna he’d have taken her as a legal wife, as is Targaryen custom. There’d be a copy of the marriage certificate in the Citadel. Forgotten. Buried. Who knows... That and that alone would be required to prove legitimacy. Without it, Jon could never claim the throne.”

*~*~*

“It is not there...” Marwyn admitted, seated around a table with the Queen and her knight. They had been there for many hours after he was pulled from his bed and sat down with a stiff drink. The candles were sunken corpses and the air muted with smoke from the dying camp fires. “Believe me, I looked. If there is a marriage certificate it was not kept in the Citadel. My guess would be Winterfell. Safest place in the realm.”

“Winterfell is a ruin.” Jorah replied. “Though I understand most of the crypts are intact. It may even be at Castle Black if my father was involved.”

“Do you intend to destroy it?” Marwyn was met with two sets of piercing eyes. “That is what I would recommend, if I were you.”

“No one is suggesting that...”

“Because Jon Stark _is_ your nephew, my queen. I may not be able to prove it with a slip of parchment but his magic speaks for itself. Not only that but Leyton Hightower received a first hand account – from _your_ father...” He added, directing the rest at Jorah.

###  **DRAGONSTONE – BLACKWATER BAY**

###  **284 AC**

Summer. The Queen lingered on her stone perch, watching as the waves chewed at the curve of black glass beneath the edges of the castle. A pool of hot steam exploded from one of the sink holes, throwing up a tower of boiling water. They howled from all over the island, venting the anger beneath _Dragonstone_. Their temper was nothing compared to the storm swelling at the edges of the horizon.

Rhaella let her goblet fall. It dropped into a watery grave with all the other bones. Were it not for the child she’d follow. In her dreams she smashed against the rocks. The voices of the sea came for her – climbing out of the darkness with their webbed hands and silver scales. They dragged her beneath the surface to live in the world of shadow and cold.

Ser Willem Darry appeared at her door. He watched the sickly queen withering into the walls. She was already a ghost. “My Queen,” he whispered, full of warmth and despair. “I beg you, come away from the window.”

She did not. “Is it true – is he dead?”

A distant rumble shook the sky and stone as if it were one heart. “Yes.”

“How?”

“Your Grace...”

“How...”

“The Hand of the King, Ser Jaime Lannister. He put a sword through your husbands back and there he fell, across his throne.” Darry hesitated, finding it impossible to read the Queen. He’d seen and heard the crimes against her body. If there was ever love in their marriage it had been beaten out of her. “Robert has crowned himself King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“My _son_ is king...” Rhaella corrected him sharply.

“The Small Council will not support Viserys’ claim. Robert Baratheon has an army at his back and stolen wealth to pay off your friends. You are alone.” It broke his heart to say the words but to lie now would be fatal. The silence hung between them. Rhaella slid off the sill and stumbled towards the knight, struggling under the weight of her swollen belly.

“I will _not_ run!” She hissed, one hand cupped under the curve of her stomach. “This is our _home_.”

“You must...” He implored her. “I have sent for help. It will come soon. There are friends that Baratheon gold cannot reach. Loyal friends.” The tears running down her face haunted him. “My Queen – let me save you. We will fight this but not today. Today we have to live.”

*~*~*

That night the force of the storm tore down one of the stone archways. Dragon figurines broke apart while wild sheets of rain lashed the castle, shifting into hail so loud that the Storm god himself hid in fear. The Queen’s screams cut through the hell. They were heard in every corner of the palace. The child was on its way amid the salt and smoke of the smouldering island.

Darry knelt in the foyer, facing the frightened eight year old boy. A huge inlaid dragon adorned the floor, twisted with three heads in the Targaryen sigil. Viserys was a slip of a thing, drawn and pale but with enormous bright eyes that watched the world. He didn’t say much except through those eyes.

“Your mother will be all right,” Darry promised. “This is how it is when a new life enters the world. You were the same. I was there that day. You were born in Autumn in King’s Landing. I remember because the dried leaves used to blow in through your window. They made you laugh.”

Viserys looked to the wall, instinctively knowing the sea to lie beyond. “The ships are breaking.”

The remains of the Targaryen fleet littered the water, torn apart by the fury of the storm. Darry had never seen anything like it in all his years. The brutality of men had triggered the violent retribution of the gods. “Oh – don’t you worry about that,” he replied.

The Queen’s screams stopped.

*~*~*

“We _have_ to leave, Willem!” Illyrio Mopatis strode restlessly around the room with the empty throne of _Dragonstone_ lurking behind. “Every second we wait Stannis inches closer. He is eager to please his brother. They are _mad_ for blood. Both of them.”

“I agree,” Leyton Hightower was seated at a table nearby, packing away his parchments. “We have delayed too long already. The Queen is _dying_. I have seen it before. She is beyond our help but her children are not. We save the prince and princess, while we still can.”

“Leave the Queen for Stannis? _No!_ ” Darry protested.

A heavy paw settled on Darry’s shoulder. “I will take them myself, Ser...” Jeor Mormont promised. “Illyrio can guarantee our passage. Leyton will send word to Doran. When the world settles down, the children will be sent to Pentos with Illyrio.” Illyrio nodded softly. Jeor continued. “For now, Braavos is the safest port but we have to leave.”

*~*~*

Jeor Mormont entered the Queen’s room. She lay on her birthing bed, surrounded by pools of blood that spilled from between her thighs. The wet nurse sat nearby, nursing the infant princess. The smell of death saturated the air. Rhaella knew it as well as him. He could see acceptance in her eyes.

“Are you to take my children, Mormont?” She asked, beckoning him over weakly. The windows were open but the skies refused to shift from grey. At the very edges of the horizon, the first Baratheon ships appeared.

“I will take your children to safety.” Jeor promised. “Watch over them.”

“All my children are dead...” Rhaella slipped a little further into the veil between words. “I see them beneath the water. All their sweet faces, cold. Eyes that never opened.”

Jeor leaned down to the Queen’s ear and whispered. A moment later, a tear trickled onto her pillow.

“Leave...” She murmured.

He nodded at the wet nurse, who brought the little princess over. “Bring only what you can carry and meet me on the pier...” Jeor instructed. As she left, he noticed Viserys hiding in the shadows. “Come here...” He said. The prince timidly entered the room – half-hiding behind the bear. His eyes set on his mother, watching her struggle for breath.

*~*~*

Ser Willem Darry stayed in the Queen’s quarters, watching the ship skim over the waves – all its sails open to the wind. It was a light, fast vessel, racing the tide. It gave him some comfort to know that the Baratheon ships would never catch it.

“Ser...” The Queen gasped, arching off the bloodied bedding. It was nearly black.

“I am here.” He promised, returning to her side. Darry sat on the bed and took her hand. Her skin was covered in dried blood and with no one else left in the castle, he took a cloth to her pale hands and wiped them down. “They are safe.”

Rhaella was lucid again. The more clearly she saw the world, the harder her tears fell. They threatened to drown her. “Leave...” she begged. “Go while you can. I’ll not see another dawn.”

“Then I shall stay the night, my Queen.” He promised. There were no ships to spirit him away. He’d chosen this.

“Did she live?” Rhaella asked.

“Oh yes. The princess is strong. Hightower calls her _Stormborn –_ a fierce little thing she is too.”

They were quiet for a while. For the last hour he’d been able to hear the bells of Stannis’ approaching fleet. Not long now and they’d be on the rocks.

“I am not sorry that he is dead.” Rhaella added, letting her head fall to the side. She squeezed his hand, clinging to the warmth of the living. “The King was sick. It is true what they say about us. Madness is in our blood. I feel it in my veins, Willem...”

His name from her lips drew Darry closer. “You are not like him – neither are your children.”

“If you see Jaime tell him – tell him I forgive him.”

“I’ll do that,” he promised.

“I’d have killed him myself if I’d had the strength.”

“Rhaella...” Darry cupped the side of her face softly. She was drifting. Her eyes fluttering. “My Queen...”

He let her go.

*~*~*

The waters of _Blackwater Bay_ were rough, tossing their ship about. Jeor left Viserys sleeping, clinging to his Night’s Watch cloak. He made his way to the front where the other men laid against the walls. The furniture had been left overturned and splintered from the earlier violence of their passage but there were rougher seas ahead.

Illyrio held up a bladder of wine. “To fools and a foolish cause.”

Jeor shook his head and lowered his body to the floor with the rest of them.

Leyton smoked one of his elegant pipes. “I am surprised at you, Mormont. Men of the Night’s Watch, let alone the Lord Commander are not meant to meddle in the affairs of the realm. Is that why you skulked here in darkness?”

“I am ranging beyond The Wall...” Jeor shrugged. That is the story his men would tell. “As you well know, it is our duty to protect the realm.”

“And smuggling a couple of dragons out of Westeros is your way of serving?” Illyrio lofted an eyebrow. His plaited beard twisted in his fingers. “It is between you and your tree-gods.”

“Indeed. It is.”

“What will you do with the other one?” Leyton pressed.

“Nothing.” Jeor replied. “He is safe in the North. Robert doesn’t know he exists and so has no cause to look for him. Ned will never betray his own blood and Catelyn’s jealousy sold the lie. We are agreed, though...” Jeor looked carefully at his company. “I will care for the children in Braavos for a few years until Robert settles into his throne.”

“Then I will take them to Pentos.” Illyrio nodded.

“And when the time is right, my friends in the West will clear the passage for their return to Westeros.” Leyton finished. “The eggs will be kept in my vaults as security until the children are old enough to take ownership of their birthright.”

“There’s always the bastard, if all else fails.”

“What about Varys?” Jeor asked. He did not trust the Spider.

“He will stay where he is,” Illyrio replied. “Keep his threads woven through the halls of King’s Landing. If Robert decides to come after the children, we’ll know. Varys also has an idea of what to do with your son – after the dust settles.”

###  **THE HIGHTOWER – OLDTOWN**

###  **287 AC**

“Oh, do not look so forlorn...” Leyton wandered around his office, flicking through the pages of a book. His fireplace crackled cheerfully while his ravens went about building nests in the rafters. It was evening but the town beneath the _Hightower_ was cheerful, brushing through the movements of Spring with carnivals blocking the pathways and heavy ships nudging into the harbour full of fruits from _Dorne_. “We have come further than I predicted. Or is it that you miss them?”

Jeor was tanned from his two years in Braavos and the voyage back to _Oldtown_. “I loved them as if they were my own,” he admitted. He still saw the siblings in his dreams, running through the half-sunken streets of _Braavos_ where they’d lived together in the Sealord’s home, holding hands and thieving lemons. Those years in the sun were too brief and he remembered them with tenderness. “My watch has passed to Illyrio.”

“And how is your _own son_?” Leyton pried. “You do not know, do you?”

“How could I...” Jeor gritted his teeth. Pain lurked beneath the surface of his calm façade.

“I want you to look at something, before you head back to your frozen hell.”

“Is it a condition of my secret passage across the realm?” Jeor was at the mercy of Leyton’s wealth.

“Why don’t we simply call it a _favour_? Trust me.” He added. “You will want to see what I have in my vault.”

*~*~*

The contents of Leyton’s vault was all Jeor could think of on the road to _Castle Black_. The truth, when looked upon, was worse than his nightmares.

When he reached the towering expanse of ice, he placed both his hands upon the surface and prayed.

“Did you find what yer were lookin’ for out there?” Asked Thorne, strutting across the snow.

“We need to talk.” Jeor replied solemnly, turning so that his back lay against the ice.

###  **CASTLE BLACK – THE WALL**

###  **PRESENT**

“Can you read them?” Dacey whispered, pressed tightly against Tormund. The passages of ice beneath the castle had narrowed again, thickening with ice as the temperature dropped. They’d had to chip away the frosted covering to reach the rocks beneath. Even then they were obscured by the ice, trapped under an impenetrable layer of water.

“Parts o’ it.” Tormund wiped his glove over the surface. “Grave stones by the look. I seen ‘em at the Fist of the Fist Men. They’re used to stop restless spirits waking.”

“Someone’s buried under here?” Dacey frowned.

“A _lot_ of someones...” Tormund showed her shadows of more stones at the edge of the ice. “It was probably open ground back then. No Wall. Jus’ our luck this is a battlefield. Probably thousands of dead fuckers under ‘ere.”

“Long as those stones work…” Dacey straightened up, holding the torch away from their faces when the heat got too much.

“Is that why you brought me down ‘ere? Ter look at a few old rocks?” Tormund was still wary of the bear. There was a wildness to her, born in the snows beyond _The Wall_. Living out there changed people. Civilisation disintegrated as quickly as honour.

“No, I wanted to fuck you – _of course_ to look at the stones.”

“I thought you might want to talk about _him_.” Dacey turned away sharply and Tormund knew he’d struck a nerve. There was a Mance-shaped chink in her armour. “I was there when he died. Fuckin’ Stannis and his ego. Wanted a Wildling to bend the knee. Baratheon fuck who knows _nothing_. Mance would sooner die and he did.”

“They burned him...” Dacey felt the warmth of her torch more keenly. The only light between them in the darkness was its flame.

“Jon Snow – he put an arrow through our king’s heart before the flames did their work. He died for honour.”

“He died a _fool_...” Dacey hissed, making her way through the tunnel. Tormund had no choice but to follow her or be left in the chasm of night.

“Would you ‘ave done it then – bowed to that cunt? I know bears and they know no-”

“-no king but the king in the North and his name is _Stark_. I know my own words, Tormund but you have _no idea_ what how far I’d go to keep Winter from this wall. These petty games of words we play...”

Tormund reached for her arm but caught her cloak, dragging it off one shoulder. It was enough to stop her. “Mance told us that we all had to go South or we’d die. He stood there, facing a hoard that wanted nothin’ better than to tear itself apart and polish off the corpses. He was king of them all. The monsters, the cannibals, the cowering mountain tribes and the raging fuckers from the ice drifts beyond the forest. Now, I’ve told them to come back to The Wall and wait for death and they followed – most of ‘em.”

Dacey knocked his hand away from her furs. “How far North have you been?”

“The edge of Thenn.”

“Then you crossed the river. I followed the Milkwater for weeks to its birth in a glacier. You’ve never seen blue until you look into a wall of ice older than our precious realm. It’s the ash, trapped in the ice half way up that wall of terror. A layer in time when the world burned. It gets into the water and turns it the colour of milk. There was no way to go North so I headed West, into the Frost Fangs – or whatever the mountains beyond Thenn are called. I didn’t find anyone there to give them names.”

“The Silver Scales,” Tormund replied. “That’s what the Thenn call them.”

She nodded. “Aye – that is them exact. Covered in ice, the black stone beneath looks silver in the light. I went so far that the sun didn’t set. It grazed in circles, removing the natural progression of time. For a while I thought I was dead.”

“What did you find out there?”

“A man. Halfway between ice and fire.”

“What is that smile for?”

“Fucking Starks, aye? They’re everywhere.”

“You found a Stark in the Frost Fangs?”

“Benjen. Always thought him a bit of a rake but he grew into his bones. He took me beyond the mountains to the ice fields. I ‘ave no idea of how long we spent moving North. People keep talking about the lands beyond The Wall as though they’re packed shoulder to shoulder with walkin’ dead but that’s not true. It’s vast – beyond understanding and most of it holds nothin’ but ice an’ rock. Those fields could swallow Westeros whole.” Dacey closed her eyes and rested against the tunnel. “I can still hear the whale songs echoing across the ice.”

Tormund gently eased the torch from her hand. “I never heard of anyone go that far.”

“It’s a desert. Perfectly flat. We found a dragon head, buried in the ice with only half its face above the surface but still enough to dwarf Castle Black. It was the only thing for as far as we could see so we made camp against it. We thought it was made from stone – cut from the side of a forgotten temple but the heat of our fire melted the top layer of frost and beneath we found real scales, Tormund – patterned and sharp as a row of knives. Dragons like that don’ live any more. But they did once. And they were in the snow. And it _killed_ them.” She shook her head. “Months later another ridge of mountains appeared only these were perfectly white, made from ice not rock – or some forgotten ocean caught in a storm as it froze. We never reached it… That is as far North as I have been. How can we fight the turn of the tide? We can no more stop the Winter snows than the Summer rains.”

“We’re not ‘ere to stop Winter, Dacey. We’re ‘ere to stop the dead.”

“Conquer death?” She asked, placing her hand softly on his shoulder. “We’ll be smoke from the pyre, Tormund – a glow on the edge of night.”

 

* * *

 

END OF PART II

 

* * *

 


	80. PRE-HISTORY TIMELINE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone - this is not a chapter. What follows is a pre-history timeline for this fanfic which I wrote for the flashbacks that have been appearing to date. Almost everything in it has been hinted at so far but if you don't want any spoilers at all for the fic, skip for now.
> 
> The timeline is based off a combination of ASOIAF lore, GoT but mostly AWOIAF. It also takes into consideration some of the wonderful essays written by https://lucifermeanslightbringer.com/2015/06/20/the-bloodstone-compendium/ whose breadth of knowledge on the subject is incredible.
> 
> Needless to say I have also taken liberties. Lots of liberties. Like so many liberties.
> 
> I've decided to share it for two reasons: 1) You guys keep asking lol 2) It's such a long fic that I thought it might be nice to draw together the history before we launch into Part III.
> 
> You guys are welcome to ask me questions about it.

**PRE-HISTORY TIMELINE**

* * *

 

 

**~70,000 BC** Foundation of the Empire of the Dawn. Asshai is built as a trading port with an existing civilisation, possibly the Deep Ones who hold current dominion over Essos. The map Jorah found in Asshai comes from this time, before magic tore pieces out of the world. The Empire of the Dawn spends the next thirty-odd thousand years spreading and building across Eastern Essos comprised of Horselords, savages, pirates and strange practitioners of magic from the South-East.

**40,000 BC** The first dragons are tamed in the mountains behind Asshai, shifting the balance of power in Essos to a single family line with pale skin and silver hair.

**35,000 BC** Lion of Night and Maiden Made of Light, descendants of this line, are crowned God Emperors of the Empire of the Dawn and rule for 10,000 years. The capital is moved to the North of the continent, to the Thousand Islands which becomes known as the ancestral home.

**32,000 BC** A meteor (moon-like object) crashes into the North of the world. Fallout from the impact triggers the First Long Night, plunging the world into Winter where creatures made of ice emerge from the distant Lands of Always Winter. They are defeated by an unknown force, possibly The Deep Ones who inhabited the North-Western Waters. Their empire is decimated clearing the way for the rise of the Empire of the Dawn.

**25,000 BC** The Lion of Night and Maiden Made of Light die on a night when falling fire is seen in the sky triggering myths of dragons falling from the sky and the Nissa Nissa mythology. The Pearl Emperor inherits the throne.

**24,000 BC** Winter sets in again. The Pearl Emperor builds the five forts along a wall of ice that bridges the Mountains of the Morn and the Bleeding Sea. He dies in battle during the destruction of the Thousand Islands, cutting the land bridge to the Lands of Always Winter in a magical cataclysm. This is the shortest of the Long Nights, sometimes called, ‘The Twilight’. The empire, in decline, moves its political heart first to Yin then finally Asshai as the Amethyst Empress comes to power after a succession of jewel emperors.

**16,000 BC** Third Long Night – some say it is triggered by the Bloodstone emperor, husband and brother of the Amethyst empress engaging in magic from the Church of Starry Wisdom, worshipping a fragment of meteor known as the Bloodstone that has been passed down through their lineage. She commissions a sword to be cast from fragments of a meteor sourced in the new world (Westeros). This is _Dawn_ created in Starfall by ancient settlers form the empire. The Bloodstone is added to the sword and used to kill the Amethyst empress giving rise to the first recorded myth of Azor Ahai.

A devastating war is fought, centring on Asshai which is torn apart by magic. The Empire of the Dawn enters a state of collapse, moving its holdings back to Yin but with the Bloodstone emperor gone, other families are left to claw over the titles.

The Bloodstone emperor rides a dragon into the far Northern ice fields of Westeros where he defeats the ice creatures in their homeland. He returns the sword to Starfall after the battle and sends the Bloodstone to Yin, awaiting the next Long Night. With his empire gone, he founds the Valyrian Freehold with the survivors and preserves the craft of dragon riding on the warm peninsula.

The Amethyst empress is resurrected by her priests but the magic is cursed, leaving her a pale corruption. They spirit her East, across the Saffron Straits to Westeros where her story is lost.

**12,000 BC** First Men enter Westeros and war with the Children of the Forest.

**10,000 BC** The pact is signed and the Age of Heroes begins including the foundation of the original houses of Westeros.

**8,000 BC** The Long Night of Westerosi lore begins. With the great empires of the world gone, the Others quickly spread over the continents. Wights appear for the first time. The Whitewalkers have gained the ability to resurrect the dead. The Children of the Forest, who previously protected Westeros from the Whitewalkers, are unable to stop them with this corrupted necromancy. They enlist the help of the First Men.

The sword is retrieved from Dawn but without the Bloodstone or the blood ritual, it takes the magic of the Children to push the Whitewalkers back. An ancient Dayne, ancestor of the Dawn emperors, wields the sword and returns it to Starfall, giving name to the War for the Dawn.

Brandon (the Builder) Stark, with the magic of the Children of the Forest, constructs The Wall at the close of the war and founds The Night’s Watch. Twelve Lord Commanders pass before he takes up the title. His brother, Brandon (the Breaker) Stark becomes King of Winter.


	81. Winter's Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right kids - are we ready for the beginning of the end?

* * *

 

 

**PART III - DAWN**

“The worst – the worst were those who played the game of thrones.”

-SER BARRISTAN SELMY

 

* * *

 

 

 

###  **WINTERFELL – THE NORTH**

“Who comes before the gods?”

The _Weirwood_ creaked as sheets of ice snapped free of its heavy limbs. They tangled above, a mixture of shadow and starlight where the ice created twinkling pools and the hundreds of torches beneath bathed the rest in smoke. The ice fell in soft _‘thuds’_ onto the snow around the _Weirwood’s_ base – a white hell that infected the North like a plague, thickening by the minute. Claws of crystal grew from every surface, gnarled and dripping like the silver fangs of an ice dragon.

One landed beside Brienne. It reminded her of the glass sculptures left on the beaches of Tarth after a storm – rivers of fire frozen on the shore and placed as decoration inside her father’s castle. Their threads of chaos echoed around her. _Fire. Ice. Fury_. It was hanging in the air.

Thousands gathered in the Godwood – spilling onto the stretch of ice between the castle and the rise where the forest poked out as a shadow. Four armies glistened in reverence before the Old Gods. Stark, Wildling, Vale and Lannister. All settled beneath _Winterfell’s_ shadow. The unlikely bedfellows observed a peace while the wolves howled and the fires stoked high, smothering the land in a false dawn that muted their banners into a single hue.

Night. The moon hid under the clouds and all the world felt the clutch of darkness. Absolute. Thick. Tangible hell.

Lyanna Mormont stepped forward from under the branches of the _Weirwood_. Her dark eyes picked through the night. The Godwood was lit by lanterns hung from the pines in a fallen sky where all the stars had come to roost with the snows. The wind whispered through making them quiver.

“Lady Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed,” Lyanna spoke the old words. “A woman grown and flowered, true-born noble and Queen of the North, she comes to beg the blessing of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

*~*~*

Many hours after the ceremony, Jaime wandered the Godswood – reaching out to tap a lantern. He was enamoured with its flame trapped by roughly forged strips of iron. Its heat melted the frost from the tip of the branch giving a mummer’s hope to the pine needles.

“You shaved your beard for the ceremony?”

Jaime reached up with his glove and stroked the smooth skin. It was paler than the rest. “Regrettably. Bloody cold without my mane.”

“Lions need their manes.” Brienne was sat beneath the _Weirwood_ with a length of white lace in her hands. She was knotting and unravelling it. Pretty things fascinated her, mostly because they were beyond her reach. She’d never sit in a silk dress, waiting for a Lord’s kind words or make vows in the presence of the gods. Those lords, so small to her now, were afraid – a sentiment Brienne encouraged. Fear kept her safe.

There were several other pieces of lace in the snow left over from the ceremony. “Liar.” She added, picking another. He tilted his head curiously. Brienne continued. “You do not miss the grey. It betrayed your age, Ser Jaime. Two great stripes of it, right at your jaw – like a Blackfye.”

“I am _not_ afraid of my age,” he challenged playfully, “any more than you fear your height.”

And there it was – the hidden sea of truth and hurt disguised with a smile. They knew each other a great deal better than they let on.

“This is a problem though...” He lifted his golden hand. “The cold gets into the metal and burns my skin. I’ll have to fashion another out of wood if I’m to stay here. It is the middle of the night,” Jaime added. “Why are you out here on your own? Don’t tell me you’re sulking over Lady Stark’s marriage because there’s shit either of us can do about that. She chose her Lord with the same calm, frigid touch as a wolf picks its meat. In any case, it is done.”

“I am doing no such thing. Lady Sansa has played her cards extremely well. He is a good choice – better than...” There were many names she could put there. Tyrion. Ramsay. Baelish. The Starks were not known for their political sense but clever hands had guided Sansa over the years. She was a new breed of wolf with incisors the size of most men’s balls.

“Well – she has  all  three armies now,” Jaime admitted. “ And that rabble from the North.”

“ No word from King’s Landing?” Brienne caught the sad tone in his reply. He shook his head. “Perhaps that is a good thing. If you’ve not been called then the Capital is safe.”

“ That, I doubt.  There’s war on the horizon and violence in the city. I was sure that  Cersei would write to me.  At first  I thought maybe the ravens were dying but I see them in the sky, sailing in with the morning light.  Even the white ones.  Never seen those before. That unpleasant Bear – the Mormont – she says that they came from the Citadel. ”

The truth was that Jaime could feel himself growing comfortable in the snow – sharing a fire with the wildfolk and drinking on the ice while the Night’s Watchmen told stories of silver bears and spiders with legs made of ice.  On nights like this, he watched the pyres rage and s a t for hours, searching the flames.  It was not religion or prayer but  _ peace _ . He’d been looking for it all his life.  Odd, that he should find it here – lingering on the edge of  untold violence  but then  his father always spoke of absolution in the moment of death – silence on the tip of a blade.

J aime sank down onto the snow near Brienne. He was swaddled in a fur cloak lined with wild wolf. Perhaps everything became a Stark if you left it in the  cold long enough.

“ I know that she is going to die.” Brienne looked up  at his confession .  He’d always been a frank man but the cold was dragging him deeper. “I’ve known it for a while. Cersei…”  H e was wistful, searching the skies between the cracks in the forest. “S he was always  raving on about this prophecy – crazy,  incoherent shit some old woman in the woods when she was a child. I thought it was rubbish, naturally but she took it to heart.  Held it there. Let it fester.”  Jaime pressed his gold hand to his chest. “ I  believe it fuelled her cruelty toward  my brother .  Tyrion killed our mother coming into the world but  rage like that  is born of fear  not loss. ”

“ P rophecy?”

“ It started with her children – three.  _ Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds _ .”  Two of his babies, cased in gold… He did not believe those words to be a lie any longer.

“Tommen i s alive.”

“For now and wearing a crown. A cub in pit of knaves… _And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands around your pale white throat and choke the life from you._ Charming.”

“ People should take more care what they say to children.”

“ Sometimes I think she forces Fate’s hand.  Would Mycella  really  be dead if Cersei’s hatred of Tyrion hadn’t placed him in a trial by combat, leading to Martell blood?  My brother should have been left to inherit Castlerly Rock, as is his birthright but my father and sister do so love to torment him.  I often wonder what kind of creature he has become  out there in the world .  He has taken up arms against his  own name to ride the wings of a second Targaryen conquest and I’m not sure if I can blame him.  Do you want to know what the true irony is?” For a moment  Jaime looked like someone else. The man before the Kingslayer. “I’m her younger brother too. Maybe I’ll strangle the life from her one day like I killed my king.”

“ Ser Jaime, I think we should go back to the castle...”

“ No. I’d like to go to the crypts. See what all  of that was for. I want to look on the child’s face that drove Robert to such tides of rage  that men by their thousands bled and died .  An empire – dismantled – Houses left in flame.  The scar of ruin still blazes across the land – smoking, fresh from fire. ”

“ Jaime I-”

* ~*~*

Brienne pried a torch from the stone, carried up the slate steps of the _Winterfell_ crypt and out into the open. She lit the oil in one of the dying lanterns and tilted her head away as it roared to life. A glow circled her. Snow tumbled through the flame. A pool of water churned in the background with a layer of mist suspended above the surface. Animals shuffled through the forest, hidden by the night.

“Come on...”  called Jaime  insistently , from the bottom of the stairs.

Brienne descended  the steps with one hand on the stone .  Parts of it had crumbled onto the ground, replaced with roots from the God s wood above.  They covered the surface like veins – shivering in the cold.

“ These crypts spread  underneath all of Winterfell and  further, beneath the forest.”  Brienne stepped around Jaime, careful not to let the flame touch him. “The other entrance, where the dragon came from, was completely destroyed.  Another hundred years and  the entire crypt will be buried in rubble  and forgotten.  This way.”

W ith every step they took the temperature rose. The walls wept with snow melt while long tangles of lichen whispered against one another. The first of the guardian statues appeared from a shadow in a frightening vision of stone. It loomed, without warning, sword in hand and a cold, dead eye watching the darkness.

“They’re all through this place,” Brienne paused in front of the ancient Stark. “ One eye...” she added. “These were men of war.  The Starks immortalised them down here to guard something.”

“ They should’ve put them at the Wall if that’s what they wanted.”

Brienne considered Jaime. “The last thing anyone wants is more dead men at the Wall. Have you eve n seen it?” He hadn’t. “You should. It changes you. You stand there, beneath that raging silence and you realise that it’s real.”

“Of course it’s real.”

“No… You don’t understand.” Brienne faced him with the torch flaring up in the space between. “If the Wall is real – so too is what it was built to keep out. How terrified were those men to create a nine-hundred foot barrier from one side of the kingdom to the other? I can’t stop thinking about it… It’s in my dreams.” She admitted. There was a chill in her voice. “Since I came back. No wonder we find the North to be a serious place. You couldn’t live in the shadow of _that_ and be anything else. ”

I f Jaime was moved by her words he did  no t show it. Instead, he took the torch from her and pressed deeper into the tunnels.

“ Oh gods...” Brienne stopped a while later at the sight of the broken statue. Lyanna Stark’s stone corpse lay in pieces, pushed up against the wall. “Something – something must have fallen on it.”

Jaime looked around. “The roof is sound. The walls, too. This statue was hit from the side  _ and it’s hollow _ .” He added, kicking a piece carefully.

Brienne nudged him away. “Do not disrespect the dead.”

“It’s a pile of rubble.”

“Even so.  Jaime...” Her tone snapped sharply as he bent down and retrieved the statue’s head. “Please put it back.”

He held it level with is face and looked deep into the smooth ridges of  Lyanna’s eyes. “Well, I guess she was a looker,” he admitted, “but the way Robert went on about her you’d swear she were the moon come to earth.  Wait-”

Brienne snatched the head away from him and put it carefully  with the remains. She paused. “Bring the torch down here.”

He did and almost at once its light caught the edge of a silver chain peeking out from the ash. Brienne drew a dagger and slid the blade in .  As it lifted, the object caught. Suspended on its length was a silver pendant featuring three dragons twisted together, each with ruby eyes.

“Prince Rhaegar… You don’t think...”She looked more closely at the ash. “They buried him inside her statue.”

“ What are you doing with that?”  he asked.

“I’m not going to leave it here for someone else to steal.”

“You’re stealing it now.”

“I’ll return it – to the Dragon Queen. It should be hers and perhaps a gift given at the right time will serve our advantage.”

A rush of freezing air kicked up the ash into smoke and threatened to extinguish their torch. The flames struggled back to life but the chill refused to lift from their skin. “What was that?” Jaime turned around but found nothing but the swaying vines and endless stone. Rocks fell. Echoing. Footsteps. “There’s someone here.” Then whispers. Muted words. Arguing. Another glow at the edge of the tunnel.

“Podrick!” Brienne growled, holding her chest with one hand. He’d nearly given her a heart attack. “Bloody hell, what have I told you about sneaking around!”

“I’m not sneaking!” He defended.

“ Seven  _ hells _ , Bronn! What are you doing with Podrick?” Jaime growled, nearly as loud.

Bronn was in the middle of untangling himself from an amorous vine. “ Keepin’ an eye on this one.” He pointed to Podrick. “ Thought it was a good idea to go wanderin’ about in the forest with all them wolves an’ shit.  I told ‘im ter leave you alone. Any wolf that goes for yer better be bloody game, I said. Didn’ realise it’d be a lion.” B rienne and Jaime wore matching  expressions of ire. “ What are yer doin’ down ‘ere anyway?” Bronn looked around a little. “Not very romantic, is it? A mausoleum.  Dead shit fuckin’ everywhere an’ all. ”

“ Bronn, aren’t you supposed to be watching out for The Hound? He’s due back any day.”

“ What good’s watchin’ gonna do?” And to be fair, Bronn had a point. “ Podrick’s the one that needs watching. His honour is going ter get him killed.  I keep tellin’ him but he doesn’ fuckin’ listen.”

“I told you, I’m  _ fine  _ on me own. ” Podrick was, however, freezing.  He wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the atmosphere that made his hands tremble.

“Well, congratulations – you’ve rescued us.” Jaime dead-panned, stepping forward. “ I’m going back to the castle to see if there’s any of that feast left.  Lady Brienne?”

“ T his way,” Podrick insisted. “This tunnel  finishe s under the castle. Better than trying to make it across the ice at this time of night.”

“ Podrick – old women worry less than you.” Brienne sighed. He was endearing though and more than once his attuned paranoia had saved her life. That’s why she managed a small smile from the curve of her lip as they  set off together.

“Bloody crazy down ‘ere...” Bronn continued to mutter as they walked. With three torches alight, the world was much brighter. “Swear to fucking gods I saw a woman before.”

“It was just the ice.” Podrick insisted.

“Ice  _ my cock _ . It was a woman. Crazy fuckin’ eyes.  Silver hair down ter her tits. ”

Podrick was shaking his head.

“Are they always like this?” Brienne leaned over, whispering to Jaime.

“Aye. Think that’s why my brother sent them to opposite ends of the realm in the first place.”

###  **BRONZE GATE – THE STORMLANDS**

_Bronze Gate_ castle perched on a sudden rise, poking through the  _King’s Wood_ with the  _Weed Water_ in front and the  _Narrow Sea_ behind. It was the final  lurch of the  _Red Mountains_ and the last pale pink earth before the land gave way to black rock and river silt.

Friendly with the Martells, the castle had already dropped a Targaryen banner over one of the walls  to welcom e the Silver Queen.  They kept  a cautious eye on h er armies  which  fanned out into the wood, too large to enter the town. Unlike the Lannisters, whose men ravished the villages on their way through, Daenerys was careful to leave nothing but footprints. She wanted  there to be no cause to anger her potential allies. Her greatest concern were the two dragons, circling overhead considering where to make their roost.  The guards eyed them warily  too , cowering every time their shadows passed over the stone.

“Khaleesi...” Jorah nodded over to _Drogon_ , who had finally settled by the river at the far edge of the town. He was drinking from the water, bowed over with his wings pinned back. He was gleaming, wet from swimming in the nearby sea. His weight was so immense that his paws collapsed the sides of the river.

“He is all right,” she insisted. “They don’t like the woods. The trees tear their wings. They’ll fly back to the coast tonight.”

“We can only hope. Viserion has his eye on those goats.”

Daenerys was unable to deny that. “A few missing goats I can smooth over with gold. Children will be more of a problem, if he takes any of those. Varys must send word soon. We cannot linger here. You have to keep armies moving. Idleness is the death of conquest. Even the _khals_ know that.”

“He won’t send word until Daario is in place,” Jorah slid off his horse first. They were at the stone pathway that led to the castle with a small entourage of _Unsullied_ in tow. The Queen’s silver mare kicked restlessly at the stone. She was a Dornish horse, used to the sand. “Varys has studied King’s Landing all his life. He knows how to take the city with as little bloodshed as possible, as you requested, while still removing your enemies. We will do well to follow his lead here. Unless you do not trust him.”

“It would be foolish to trust anyone completely,” she replied, also landing on the rough surface. “But it would be equally foolish for Varys to manipulate my life to this point only to kill me. He could have done that in the desert when I was a child. I may not know exactly what he wants but I know enough.” She rubbed the thick neck of her horse then together, she and Jorah headed up the pathway toward the twisted bronze gates from which the town drew its name. They paled in comparison to the wonders they’d seen in the East but there was something about their defiance that brought a smile to her lips. “That is a Blackfyre banner...”

“I noticed that too…” Jorah eyed the restless piece of frayed cloth. As faux pas went, this one was impressive. “I do not believe they mean to cause offence. Most of the Targaryen banners were burned after Robert’s rebellion. If we wish people to fly the correct standard we’re going to have to make them ourselves.”

“Ah… The parts of conquest no one warns you about.”

Jorah managed a smile at the edge of his lip. “Every king must attend his paperwork. Raiding cities is the easy part. The detail is the difference between a fine ruler and a  _great_ one.”

* ~*~*

They were right to worry about  _Viserion_ .  As soon as Daenerys slipped into the castle he took to the air and circled the paddocks at the edge of the forest. He scooped three goats from the pasture, one at a time, tossing them about in the air until their bleating was silenced by a crush of jaws.  The skies rained blood and then o n dusk they headed East, seeking the black sea cliffs to  roost .

T he Lord of the castle took  Daenerys and the knight to a  private  room  where they’d set out a map of the  seven  kingdom s .  A battle map. It was not as beautiful as the table in  _Meereen_ nor the floor of  _King’s Landing_ but it was up to date  and at the moment that’s all that mattered. Jorah strolled around it, inspecting each piece.

“Here is your problem,” he finally said, pointing to _Horn Hill_. “There remain a great number of wealthy lords who stand to los e their holdings under your rule – particularly those first given that wealth by Robert Baratheon. Meanwhile the old lords you’re trying to court from the Targaryen days will expect you to return those titles. You cannot do both. Robert’s old men will never trust you. There is an immutable tide of blood in the way.”

“Surely after the fall of King’s Landing they will see that there is no future in their old allegiances?”

“Logically yes, historically no… People are passionate, illogical creatures capable of nursing a slight for centuries.” Jorah replied. “It takes more than a single, devastating loss to change minds like that – if anything it encourages them to fight harder. You’ll have to buy them off.”

Daenerys scowled at her advisor. “And how much will that cost me?”

Jorah paced around the map again. “Too much. Half your wealth at least and that’ll only serve you as far as the Neck. The North cannot be bought.”

“I cannot ransom away my fortune to these lords...” Daenerys sank down into one of the chairs. Like everything in the castle, it was edged in delicate bronze work. “That money is needed to rebuild the empire – fortify it against the next war and most importantly, to feed the population. Aegon didn’t buy his way into Westeros – he _conquered it_.”

“He did a great deal of both, Your Grace,” Jorah dared to correct her. “And he murdered hundreds of _thousands_ of common people  in the process. He may have brought peace to the empire but it came at a price you’re unwilling to pay. You are not him, Khaleesi. You may have three dragons but you do not possess his ruinous soul. This is not the Dothraki Sea. Burn down a city in the East and you are a hero. Do that here and you are branded a tyrant.”

S he reached out and swiped at the board, knocking pieces of it onto the ground. Lions,  birds, flowers and snakes scattered over the floor. Daenerys kicked at those in reach and in turn they rattled over the stone.  She clenched her fist and slammed it onto the table. Her blood was rising against her skin. Rage tempted madness but Jorah knelt at her feet, collecting the pieces from the board. He lay them on his palm, treating them as if they were eggs stolen from a wild raven’s nest.

“Aren’t you going to scorn me, Ser?”

H e did not.  Jorah rose and placed each piece back where it belonged. His work was tender – either he cared about the state of the board or he was using it as a distraction, focussing diligently on the task so that he didn’t have to meet his queen’s eyes.

“We cannot buy our way to the throne,” she repeated, pausing as he set another piece down. Daenerys noticed that his hands were rough from the recent battles. First _Dorne_ then the _Red Mountains_. _Westeros_ was going to make them  war all the way to the Iron Throne. A curious smile ghosted over her lips. “We’ll have to fight our way there, one lord at a time.”

J orah finished with the pieces and stepped back, facing her with his hands clutched loosely behind his back.  “Diplomacy, Your Grace, does not have to equal coin.”

“Do you remember, a lifetime ago, when we were wandering through the Red Waste?”

Jorah could still feel the heat of the sun in his skin. He dipped his head in reply.

“I’d have have gone to war with the Seven Kingdoms and all the realms of men with those precious few _Dothraki_ riders at my back. There was never a moment of doubt. _Dothraki_ honour the strong and abandon the weak. If they are riding by your side you know that they are _yours_ , heart – soul – hooves. These armies of the West do not know who they serve. Mostly, I think, they serve gold.”

“Gold is a fine master.”

“Even the Unsullied…”

This time Jorah swayed. His palms went slick with sweat. “I thought you were speaking of the Dornish forces. What has happened,” he added carefully, “to leave you in doubt of the freed slaves?”

“Grey Worm is gone.”

“ _May the gods keep him.”_

“And his devotion died with him. Black Scale is a worthy battle commander – I dare say his is more cunning than his predecessor but there is ice in his eyes that I do not like. He may very well fight all the way to the Wall, Ser Jorah but what then? When the Winter dies and the Summers melt the snow, will the Unsullied take their leave of Westeros and sail back to Eastern shores? No. You agree… I think you’ve guessed the same as me. These armies that I’ve brought with me will have to find their place in Westeros. The Lords are smart. They’ll see this final chapter coming and fight, tooth and claw, to stop it. Even the Lords who might support my claim will resist this eventuality.”

J orah was quiet. He didn’t know how to reply to her because she was  _right_ . This war was going to change  _Westeros_ forever and he wasn’t sure that he was ready for that. “To survive...” he started, unsure of his thoughts. They were running through the air, searching for meaning. He reached up and dragged them back, hoping to make some sort of sense of the chaos that they were creating. “...we must evolve  or the dead will kill us all.”

“And if the East kills the West, what will the fighting have been for?”

“Then there is something you must do, before you present your crown to the realm. A pact...” He added, when she did not follow. “An agreement between the armies you have brought and the people of Westeros. It has been done before, many thousands of years ago. Let us learn from history and strike the blow of peace before any blood is spilled. The lords fear your madness and your armies. Draw up this promise. Send it to every noble – fill the sky with wings… What is the worst that can happen? Men that already wished you dead still wish it. If some turn to your side, pledge their peace then you have won.”

“And my madness, Ser Jorah? What of that...”

“Your visions are not madness and anyone who saw you walk from the flames thinks you a god. A god empress, even.”

Daenerys softened. “Shall I style myself in the Eastern way too, Ser Jorah?”

There was another smile on his lips as he dropped his gaze to the floor, quietly amused. “I would not recommend it…”

“Empress of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Khaleesi…”

“I am teasing… I have quite enough titles as it is. They trail out behind me like sails from a mast.”

“There is only one more title that you require.” Jorah plucked a piece from the board and laid it in her waiting hand.

 _The Iron Throne._ Its pointed edges stuck into her skin. The real thing was a vicious creation, bred form death and fire – a throne for a demon god. “Trust...” Daenerys mused again, rolling the word through her lips, ignoring the bitter taste of it in the back of her throat. “You will have to trust _for me_ , Ser Jorah.”

###  **WINTERFELL – THE NORTH**

Littlefinger paled at the glow of _Winterfell_ peering out from the night. It was a monstrous thing – a black shadow surrounded by piles of burning men. A filthy shroud of smoke enveloped the valley leaving a putrid scent on the air. Oh… If Ned could see his precious castle now… It sickened Littlefinger to realise that a tiny, unacknowledged part of him, felt like he was coming home…

“The forest is lit...” Petyr added, as their horses traipsed through the re-frozen powder. The top layer of ice snapped against each hoof followed by the horse’s legs sinking deep. “They only hang lanterns for weddings.”

“If you say so.” The Hound grumbled in reply. He’d put up with the Lord’s noise most of the way back. All he wanted was a fire and deep cup of ale. His burned flesh was sensitive to the cold _and it was getting colder._

As they crossed the frozen lake, Petyr paused to take in the view. The ice was like water reflecting the stars and the sickly orb of the falling moon. He stared into its depths, watching as dark shapes shivered beneath the ice and then lifted his gaze to the sky above and revelled in its infinite chasm. Coloured ribbons of light snapped across, fast as snake’s tongue tasting the air. Rose. Lime. Lemon. Sapphire. The colours chased each other.

“Is that it?” Petyr asked, as they slid from their horses and handed them to the stable master.

The Hound was already on his way out. “That’s it.” Then he was gone – another shadow in the snow.

Petyr eyed his horse, giving it a final pet on the nose. It bucked against his hand softly as his glove knocked free a layer of frost from its fur.

The hours of night were over and the first breaths of morning already misting around _Winterfell_. Petyr felt himself a wretch and looked it too. Weeks on the road after his imprisonment had left his body a wreck of bone and skin. He looked shorter for it, swamped in his clothes which themselves wreaked of the road. He had gone to _The Vale_ to become a king and returned less of a man. _Backwards_ was not a direction he enjoyed.

When he reached his quarters, he hovered outside – laying his gloved hand on the surface of the door. It was the last barrier separating him from safety and he acknowledged it with a private nod.

His quarters were as he left them except the oil lamps had been lit and someone was burning incense in the corner. It choked in the back of his throat, reminding him of his whore houses where he used it to cover the stench of sex. A copper bath waited, newly drawn with steam swirling from the hot water. Petyr gazed at it wistfully and hurried himself, undressing with his eyes on the bath.

He was down to his tunic when a shadow at the corner of the room stepped forward.

Andar Royce was a reflection of his father, half-a-hand taller, broader with young flesh and arms used to wielding broadswords. They had met before, many times both while Petyr ruled _The_ _Vale_ and earlier, when he’d been a young boy from _The Fingers_. It took scant moments for the pieces to fall into place, each more sickening than the last until Petyr could barely find the will to breathe.

“Perhaps you should sit down, Lord Baelish. You’ve a pale look about you.”

Petyr did not trust himself to speak – not while his mind was busy running calculations.

“Indeed, there’s enough ice in your complexion one might think you’d joined the dead.”

Still, Petyr did not speak. He felt naked, barefoot and shivering before the Lord.

“You need not look so fearful. I have come to inform you that the Lady Sansa Stark has declared you Hand of the Queen.” Andar Royce held up a small, golden pin to the light. He twisted it, letting Baelish get a good look before he tossed it on the nearby bed. Petyr’s eyes followed. Lingered a moment. He could have sworn he heard the echo of an executioner’s axe. Finally, he returned to Andar who was not done speaking. “Of course you understand she could not tell you herself. The bride is _indisposed_ at the present so I am here in her stead.”

“The Lady Stark is-” Petyr began to say, even though he read the answer in Andar’s eyes. _That’s how Sansa bought his freedom. That’s why he’s still alive._ “Oh yes, of course.” He immediately donned a professional politeness. All sweetness and honey. He even dipped his head in a bow and prayed the bile didn’t reach his throat. “Congratulations, I believe.”

Andar tipped his head slightly in recognition. “I shall leave you, Lord Baelish, to settle. I am sure you long for the rest after the journey.”

_And after the imprisonment at the hands of your father, yes._ “That would be generous of you, thank you.”

“We will speak further in the morning.” Andar stepped across the room and approached Littlefinger. He was a shell of a man. Barely a nick in the stone. It was laughable, really, how whispers of his presence could frighten kings into submission. What was he now but a pawn – a withered one at that. He had come home to _Winterfell_ to die, piece by piece,  because he was too much of a coward to face the drop.

When he was close enough, Andar offered his hand. Petyr reached for it, trying to steady his hands which shook from the cold. Andar lurched forward, wrapping his enormous spread around Littlefinger’s wrist and tugged him sharply. Petyr stumbled forward and met Andar’s fist, right underneath his ribs. One cracked. He felt it go. Heard the snap in his ears.  Littlefinger buckled, folding onto the ground in a pitiful lump of cloth.  His hands crossed over his chest. He gasped for air like a small child.

A ndar sighed. “ You disappoint me.” He watched while the other man choked on his own breath. Creatures like this had no hope of surviving the wars to come. Politics were a luxury of peace. “I assume we understand each other?” Andar inched toward Baelish, who shuffled away on instinct until he was clutching the edge of the bath. “You need  only  nod. Good. Tomorrow then. Sleep well, Lord Baelish.”

A s soon as the door closed, Petyr slid to the floor and rolled onto his back. Pain, exasperated by the cold, stabbed across his chest. Drowning. He could feel the darkness closing in from the edges of his vision.  He needed to get into the bath and let the heat run through his veins. Then he could think.

B efore he  could move, the door open ed again. Petyr tensed. The footfalls were soft. Not those of a soldier. He knew them. His mind was foggy but he’d seen the man trailing around after the imp. “Payne…?”  Baelish rasped.

Podrick closed the door and eyed the mess on the floor. He’d seen worse in his years. Tyrion, particularly, had set himself in some right states after a night on the wine. “That’s me.” He replied, moving over to Lord Baelish. “Right,” he added, kneeling down and lifting Lord Baelish’s hand off his chest to have a look, “it is not half as bad as it feels.”

“Forgive me but why are you here?”

“My Lady commanded it.”

“Brienne of Tarth asked you to attend me?” Petyr was on his knees, using the edge of the bath to clamber back some dignity.

“When you’ve sobered up from the pain you’ll work it out.” Podrick assured him. “For now why don’t we pretend that I’m your squire?”

*~*~*

Hours later, Petyr sat on the edge of the bed while Podrick wrapped a thick bandage around his chest. “You have to keep breaks warm up here,” he said, as he tucked the bandage in place. “That’s where the danger comes from – the cold getting into the bone. I’ve seen people die from less than this.” When it was done, Podrick shaved Lord Baelish’s beard and brought him blankets for the bed. The fire in the corner of the room  smoked. Like everything else in this ruinous slum, it was broken. “Would you like me to pin it to your tunic?” He asked, holding up the pin.

Baelish shook his head and held out his hand, taking it from Podrick. He ran his thumb over the polished metal. He wanted to hate the token. It was, after all, a commiseration not an achievement.  _It is more than you had yesterday_ , he reminded himself,  _another rung – keep on climbing._ He curled his hand around it and felt the metal warm. “ Was it a fitting ceremony?”

Podrick was caught off guard. “Ah – yes. Traditional. Northern… I know that-” No. Podrick aborted that thought. He was used to speaking out of turn with Lord Tyrion and Lady Brienne. To do the same with Lord Baelish was a mistake.

“You may as well say what you think, Podrick,” Petyr caught him, “the truth unsaid is still heard.”

“Best not… I’m not – that is, _I don’t want_ to get caught up in – you understand. That is not why I am here. I serve M’lady and M’lady serves Lady Stark.  Lady Stark – well… I’m here.”

“Do you want to know what this is?” Petyr ignored his ramblings. He knew _exactly_ what was going on in this castle. “This – Podrick – is the illusion of power. Illusion, like any common magic trick, is a powerful thing. It is a slight of hand. A breath of air baiting the edge of a cliff but let me tell you something. When you stand on that edge with your face at the sea and the drop below all illusions are banished. In that moment of clarity _real power_ rears its head. When you look up on it, the sight will shake you to the core and hurl you onto the rocks.”

P etyr turned to the fire. It has been so long since he’d seen the flames that he wanted to curl up amongst them. “ The Kings and Queens of Old had no need of illusions.”

Alone, Petyr sat on the bed in his windowless room, inhaling the heat and soot. He yearned for the poppy but feared his supply would be needed later so he endured the pain and meditated on the new world order. _Power indeed._ There were people in this world who had it.

*~*~*

At dawn, Ser Jaime found Littlefinger lurking around the castle wall, swooping  about like a predatory eagle looking for a corpse to pick.  He was older and a bit pale but so was every other Southern face lost in the snow.

“I must admit, I am surprised.”

“Likewise, Lord Baelish. I heard you were nosing about in the North but I rather thought you had your eye set on The Vale?”

“I serve only my Queen, Ser Jaime,” Littlefinger tapped the pin on his tunic. “As do you with yours.”

“There cannot be two queens, as well you know.”

“Three queens, apparently. Can’t you hear it – the flap of wings?” Petyr was deliberately theatrical, keeping the air light. A Lannister army at their feet was equal odds. His particular fear was that their air of peace rested on a certain curiosity between Lady Brienne and the wounded lion. Such an unstable thought made Petyr nauseous. “I am surprised,” he continued his original sentiment, “because all my little birds tell me there’s a king tide coming.”

“If Daenerys Targaryen comes for the throne, Cersei will be waiting for her.” He replied, defiantly.

“Oh – she is coming. I wonder, if you are ever given the chance to look into her eyes, whose soul will you see? I’d wager there’s a touch of madness. You don’t think so? Interesting...” Baelish placed his hands on the wooden balustrade and gazed out over the snow. The scene was not quite so dismal in the light. “She’s burned cities to the ground. Murdered entire ethnic classes. Fed her enemies to her dragons and ravaged the Slaver Cities of their gold. Look to the East – there’s nothing but silence where she’s been. Yes, Ser Jaime, King’s Landing is on a knife’s edge and Dorne has been laid to ruin. The dragon queen has friends in Westeros – powerful friends, even here.”

“The North do not support Southerns, be they lions or dragons.”

“How wrong you are – just like your father. It is up to you, of course but if you want our queen to live I’d ride South before the snows trap you here forever. When they start in earnest, none of us can leave.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Lord Baelish but right now I’m the best friend you have in the world.”

“May the gods help me then...” Baelish dipped his head. “A one-handed man in a storm of swords is about as much good as a torch without fire.”

 _There she was…_ Momentarily distracted, Lord Baelish followed Sansa with his grey eyes as she crossed the square, draped in a silver cloak with her red hair billowing, littered with snow. She carried a short sword at all times, strapped around her waist and thick boots made for riding. Any aspirations she had of being a fine lady dressed in sheets of silk and hair plaited with roses had long vanished.

“She is still a Stark – if that is what you are wondering,” Jaime added, on his way down the steps. “And _he_ is not the Lord of Winterfell.”

B aelish waited at the edge of the balcony. Alone, he felt the slight tremble that inhabited his hands.  _Turn around_ , he whispered, in his mind.  _Turn around_ .


	82. Pearl Eyes

 

 

###  **CASTERLY ROCK – WESTERLANDS**

They came around the tip of _Kayce_ , treading the silken waters that had softened in the still, laying calm as the lake region while great currents dragged beneath. The ugly castle on the prow of sandstone raised no objection to the passage of Ironborn ships gathering beneath. It had been torn down and rebuilt so many times that no one inside its walls could remember who their kin was or if they cared for anything beyond the drink and whores that flocked into its weary perch.

Beyond it, even from the sea, Victarion saw the tower of gleaming stone lift toward the sky. _Casterly Rock_ was a bitch of a thing, thrice as tall as the white wall in the North and etched with traps carved by a thousand years of paranoia. If gold made men mad then this was the seat of fools. The Ironborn had been trying to fuck its walls since they’d first set eyes on them and every time they’d been dashed in the harbour. The water was full of drowned men and their barges. They littered the sea floor like sand with creatures making nests of their bones.

The Lannisters were strong, Victarion respected that. They cared for little but gold and power yet the attaining of the latter left them weak. He could see the fault lines through their strength. The error in their strategy. The Great Tywin Lannister was dead and even together, his children could not muster half the sense of that old man.

“It is as you said,” one of the Ironborn joined his captain at the wheel. “The harbour is stocked but the walls are bare. The bulk of the Lannister forces are elsewhere.”

“Rob Stark and Stannis Baratheon chipped away at some, the rest are North at Winterfell or swarming the streets of the Capital.” Victarion replied. “Lannisters worry too much about the dragon queen and not enough about the foundations of their house.”

Victarion stalked the deck of his ship. He could hear the crash of waves against the shore to his left and the screech of gulls. They roved between the water and the cliffs, fishing in the afternoon light. By the time the sun dipped below the cusp of horizon, they’d round on the bay of _Lannisport._ All three-hundred ships.

###  **CITADEL – OLDTOWN**

The remains of the Citadel cooled. For weeks the embers in the depths of the stone building smouldered, holding the maesters at bay with its ferocious heat. The fire had burned so hot and for so long that the rock itself melted into the floor, laying in puddles of ruin. There were no square edges left. Every surface had mellowed and dripped into a gnarled, unsalvageable wreck.

“Something was kept down here….” One of the maesters said, kneeling to a discolouration in the floor. Obsidian bars – or what was left of them. He’d never seen anything like it.

“There is no mention of this place in the archives.” The other replied.

“Perhaps not but they were the property of Lord Hightower. He was a man of a secrets and liked to keep his dealings with the Citadel off the books.”

“That he was. Not all of them good.” The other agreed. A quiet settled over them as they took in the very real devouring of the room. It had been a long time since anything of note had been destroyed in _Oldtown_. “There are more stories coming out of Dorne.” He added. “The Dragon queen has cleared her throat. House Martell marches with her across the Dornish border. There hasn’t been a Dornish army outside Dorne for a long time and yet here we are – foreigners and savages.”

“Never a good thing,” the other agreed. “This Targaryen means to move on the Capital.”

“What is to be done?”

The other maester lifted his gaze, surprised by the question. “What we always do. The only thing we can. Record it with accuracy. If this is the foundation of a new empire then it falls to us to enshrine it in print.”

“Not all maesters are taking such a...” he searched for the word sufficient to describe the despicable actions of Grandmaester Marwyn and his apprentice, “...academic approach.”

“The day it snows in Oldtown is the day I’ll write about the snow.” Some men were prepared to die in the stone cells they were born too. Others were not.

Outside, fresh stone was unloaded off a steady line of carts purchased with Northern coin. In exchange those same carts were piled with vats of wildfire. The businessmen of Oldtown were not the same as the maesters. They did not need to be convinced of dead men on the march – the only convincing they required could be measured on a scale. If _Winterfell_ wanted to stockpile green fire they’d happily supply it.

###  **BRONZEGATE – THE STORMLANDS**

Daenerys itched for war. Waiting at the edges – imagining the depths of conflict whilst being kept at arm’s length had grown intolerable. She felt the cold walls of the castle at her back like bars of a prison. Delay surely ate away at any advantage she had. Each day allowed the Lannister King another chance to prepare. He was a boy, she knew but he was surrounded by motivated, clever creatures that had coveted the throne longer than she’d been alive.

“You’ll wear a hole in the stone, _K_ _haleesi._ ” Jorah watched her from the edge of the room. He hated the bare walls of the castle as much as she did but it was a safe port in a dangerous world. “Waiting is the hardest part of war.”

She placed her hands on the windowsill and stared down at the river snaked across the bottom of the hill. Her dragons had gone out to the water to hunt while her army pitched on the marshy ground among the insects and cold. “It is not the waiting I mind, ser Jorah,” she replied, attempting to drag fresh air into her lungs but it was rotten with poverty and filth. It was not how she’d expected _Westeros_ to taste. “I am at the mercy of my council. I’ve never had a council to be at the mercy _of_.”

“Whose council do you fear more... Varys, Tyrion or Daario?”

_All of them._ “What do you know of this Tyrell woman?”

“Olenna?” Jorah shifted. He’d remained in his armour but had the grace to drape his cloak across the steel breastplate. “She fancies survival, Your Grace. Above all things she’ll serve the continuation of her house. Olenna is...” Jorah searched for a meaningful comparison, “...like Dothraki. So long as you are strong she will be loyal.”

Behind them, the door pushed open. Jorah’s hand wrapped instinctively around the base of his sword but it was only the maester with a raven’s note. With a polite dip of his head, he was gone. Jorah turned the slip of rolled parchment in his fingers. There was a bear paw print on the seal, the same as his father’s pin. “From my cousin.”

“I told you she would write.” Daenerys replied, moving back to the table where she nodded at him to sit with her.

Jorah took up a place opposite before snapping open the wax seal and unfurling the message. Lyanna had the hand of a child but the will of a lord. It came through her words and Jorah feared the day when she was grown.

“What does it say?” she prompted.

“Lady Sansa Stark, Queen of Winter has wed Lord Andar Royce whose father Yohn Royce now rules the Vale. The armies of the North, including some Lannister forces, hold Winterfell. Winter is here...”

“That is not a look I’ve seen cross your face...” The queen observed quietly.

“She adds, ‘the North wishes the dragon queen good fortune in the wars to come’.”

“It is not the tragedy that you imagined.”

Jorah set the message on the table and sat back, staring at it. “Polite forgiveness is not a family trait.”

“Though you admit to never meeting her.”

“She’s a _bear_ , Your Grace, but what she says about the Lannisters is of greater interest. We may very well take the city but ser Jaime – who is almost certainly still in command of the army, could ransom Winterfell and hold all our allies in the noose.” He fell quiet for a while, deep in thought. Jorah had always been a military strategist – it’s how he’d survived so long in a violent world. “I know you want to kill every living Lannister with your bare hands but we may need them alive.”

“Cersei _dies_.” Daenerys hissed, with absolutely no room to give.

“The boy then, Tommen. He is Jaime’s son, what better piece to hold?”

“You want me to spare the king? Of all those who must die, the king is one if I am to rule.”

“Not if you strip him of his titles. Banish him to the Night’s Watch. You have that power. It might also help with Tyrion’s loyalty. He has no stomach for the murder of his nephew.”

She hated that there was logic in his words. Is this how wars were fought? Where threats of murder cheapened to slaving – a practice she thought herself above. Was it worse than murder? “He is married to the Tyrell girl. Could she be convinced to help us?”

“Shall I write to Varys?”

“Tyrion...” Daenerys corrected. “He has more motivation to succeed.”

* ~*~*

Arya  woke to the bitter taste of blood on her lips. She lifted her hand and brushed her fingertips against her mouth only to find it dry. The blood was in her dreams – devoured by jaws and fangs that were not her own. She remembered  _The Twins_ , rising up from their sad stretch of grey water. The long, frost-tipped grass against her snout and the sound of the pack shifting in the moonlight.

The killing had started when a cloud passed over the moon. Her wolves slipped out from the forest and, silent as a sword cutting through the darkness, they caught people by their ragged clothes and dragged them into the shadows.

_Nymeria_ feasted with the rest, focusing her hatred on everything that fell beneath the shadow of the towers. Her brother. Her Mother. Her men. Arya saw all their faces in the river’s depths. She paid for their pain with the lives of those the wolves tossed into the river.

This was no t revenge. That would require the Freys themselves to float, face down, along the river waiting for the ocean gods at the mouth. No. This was  _terrorising_ . Her paws padded against the mud while her nose dripped.

Arya sat up and shook the dream off. Light poured through the window on her left. She could hear the steady  _clink_ of metal workers in the town below and the general rabble of humanity. It was the same everywhere that she travelled – from one side of the  _Narrow Sea_ to the other. Humanity  _did not_ change.

###  **KING’S LANDING – WESTEROS**

Cersei Lannister shrieked with fury. Qyburn dipped his head extra-low at her displeasure.

“That pirate _cunt_!” She hissed, hurling the scroll to the floor where it curled in on itself. “How could this happen? Where were our men? Does the king know? Does ser Jaime know?” Her questions came so fast that Qyburn could not intercede with any answers until she’d finally retreated to the pitcher of wine to pour another glass.

“There are ravens on their way north to ser Jaime,” he replied, nervous that the towering flames of the fireplace behind raged in a mimic of her mood. “The king is in the garden with his lady and does not know. Victarion attacked without notice or cause with the full force of his Ironfleet. Most of your army is here on in the North. Victarion’s army is not a normal force, Your Grace. Nobody else would have been able to fight their way up the tunnels inside the rock but the Ironborn are well used to rock and sea.”

By the time he’d finished speaking, Cersei had drained two glasses and was working on her third. “Casterly Rock is _our home_!” The tone of her speech was that of a wounded creature.

“Your Grace, if I may?”

Her eyes lifted and her head dipped in a nod. “What harm is there to let the Greyjoy stay unchallenged – at least for the moment?”

“It _weakens_ us, as a family – as rulers – as a great house of Westeros. We cannot have our family home in the grip of raiding pirates! Think of what Tywin would say!” Cersei _knew_ what her father would do. He’d be on his horse, sword in hand and he wouldn’t return without Victarion’s head on a spike.

“Their hold of the rock is only an appearance of weakness,” he pressed dangerously, “but if you were to commit actual troops to uproot Victarion your position here would be empirically weakened. By your own words, there is no gold left at the rock. No wealth to speak of. Victarion holds a Western fortress with no way to feed his men. He’ll have to abandon it before long.”

Cersei paced backwards and forwards across the unforgiving stone room. The only warmth came from the fireplace and despite the raging flame her bones were left in chill. Several windows laid out to her left, each arched gracefully at the top – one crumbled at the edges where a deep crack threatened to split it into two. Beyond them, smoke hung thick over the city, thickening as the dead were burned. The _Dragon Pit_ held the thickest pillar. She hated to think of all those Sparrows, cowering inside that ruin. How could they eke out survival against the wishes of the Crown? If she could not murder those treacherous zealots in the next street how could they hope to defeat a Targaryen with three dragons?

“Do nothing...” She mused the words – allowed them to linger on the air. Putrid, resigned apathy… It was not the Lannister way.

*~*~*

Tommen did not know what to say to his queen. She trailed her hand along the ironwork at the edge of the garden, stepping back and forth from side to side where the vines encroached and dropped their leaves at her feet. Her hand was set on the base of her stomach which remained flat against the thin layers of silk and silver belt.

“You look to the West, my queen...” Tommen finally spoke, from his position on a sandstone bench. “Highgarden is to the West – well… South-West.” Still, she did not speak. “I have been thinking that perhaps you should take leave there.”

Margaery hesitated. Turned. Looked upon her young king. He was _too young._ There were times that she wished her grandmother had let Jeoffrey live. If it was all for this then he’d have deserved the fate of the dragon queen and Tommen would have been allowed to slip into history as another missing heir of a failed dynasty.

“If only we could both go,” Margaery lamented. “You would like it, I think – the gardens. They drape over the old walls so that you can’t see the scars of the castle.”

“I cannot go. I am the king.” His words were as sad as her eyes. “I wish that it were not so.”

“You are very like your uncle.”

“Jaime?” Tommen had heard it a thousand times and with good reason. Sons are often like their fathers but Margaery was shaking her head. “Do you mean Uncle Tyrion? No...”

“It is a compliment, Your Grace.”

“I asked you not to call me that...”

“You are _better_ than the station granted to you and, had you not inherited a lecherous mess of a kingdom, you’d be a fair ruler.”

“My grandfather said that a good ruler builds kingdoms from the ash. I never expected to see mine returned to it.”

“You’re thinking about her too.”

“She has three dragons. Of course I think about it. Three dragons and several savage armies. A birthright and magic, they say. I dream of little else.”

“And so you wish to send me away. Me and the child.”

“Tell me – is it such a bad idea?”

Margaery shook her head. “No – it is not but I cannot accept. I married you, Tommen and I am queen beside you.”

He reached out and she walked toward him. Their hands met and he dragged her down to sit beside him.

“Of all the kings I’ve wed, I like you the best...” she teased softly and pressed her forehead against his. If _only_ he’d be allowed to live a little longer. Such a king he might make.

*~*~*

“What is it that has you all a flutter?” Olenna barely lifted her eyes as Cersei stormed into her offices. A pair of crows picked at each other on the ledge, dropping feathers. “It is not a social visit. Of that I am sure.” Cersei was actually cradling a goblet of wine which told her everything she needed to know. “Then it must be about that great big ugly rock. Before you ask, the armies of Highgarden are on their way _here_ to defend the capital. They cannot be diverted to the other side of the continent based on nothing but sentiment and even if they could, that sort of fighting is not their strength. It would be folly.”

“Good. Then we agree.” Cersei cut sharply. “Highgarden’s army are to hold King’s Landing so you can still your scheming quill, Olenna.”

Olenna set the enormous brown and cream feather down on the leather covering. “What are your feelings toward pirates?”

“Is – is that a _joke_?”

“No indeed. I have a proposition I believe you may enjoy.”

###  **KINGSWOOD – WESTEROS**

The click of hooves was softened by a layer of pine needles and dried leaves. They lay across the _Kingsroad_ as a veil, hushing the progress of the Tyrell army. Unlike the North, these woods were full of life. The mists, kicked up by the nearby sea, washed between the girths of swaying trees and caressed the ferns which sprouted, vibrant, against the morning dew. Fresh webs collected droplets of water, several of which fell from above and splashed against armour.

Loras road at the head of the army. He lifted his hand and, in silence, the men behind came to a stop. Forest birds whittled and cried. They vanished flashes of colour above. Then, Loras continued around the curve in the path alone.

His chainmail glinted like silver thorns while he’d combed the thickest of his hair down over the ruined ear. He was a vane man learning to wear his scars. Once he had come far enough for the forest to obscure his army, a pair of figures emerged from the mist.

Lords Varys and Tyrion… There was no mistaking the bald eunuch and his dwarf.

“My grandmother never ceases to amaze.” Loras said, kicking his leg over the horse and dismounting. He paced up to the pair. They wore the Targaryen colours – red and black with dragon sigils woven into the fabric. “The pair of you are the first tangible proof that the pieces are in motion for war.”

“Says the man with an army at his back.” Varys replied. His hands had dipped into his sleeves in his usual manner. Part of him was glad to be coming out of the shadows at least. The fringes of the world were no place for a politician. “Queen Daenerys Targaryen hopes that our presence here, unarmed and alone as you see, is proof enough of our sincerity.”

Loras dipped his head. “What is this message that I am to collect which could not be sent on the back of a raven? Am I to marry the queen of dragons in exchange for a kingdom?”

“ _Mother of Dragons_ ,” Tyrion corrected carefully. “The dragons are her children as she birthed them into the world.”

Loras placed absolutely no stock in the ramblings of superstition after what he’d endured. “As you say.”

“The queen is of no mind to marry,” Varys explained, “but instead offers you ‘Caretaker of the Throne’ further-” he continued before Loras had the chance to intercede, “-she proposes an alliance between your sister and the new Dornish prince on the condition that the child she is carrying be allowed to live. The Dornish are particularly open about these things and the queen has no wish to continue the tide of infant bloodshed that her predecessors revelled in.”

Tyrion stepped forward and extended his hand. Laid across his palm was a black dragon scale. “Take it – to give to Olenna.”

Loras picked up the scale, turning it over in his hand. “For what reason would the queen require a caretaker?”

“I assure you, if you accept these terms, we shall tell you.”

Loras rubbed his thumb over the surface of the dragon scale. “And my sister’s husband? Ah yes… Of course.” How could he be allowed to live…

“It is a generous offer, Lord Tyrell. The queen will name you her heir and it will be the children of your name that sit upon the throne in the years to come.” Varys watched Loras carefully. Of course, Loras could decide to capture them both and take them before Cersei but there was no reward that she might bestow to counter the breath of a dragon. It was not exactly a choice they were offering him but an open door to a cell.

“I have brought the red sashes,” he replied finally. “As you asked. You best sink back into the wood. My army comes now.”

###  **DRAGONSTONE – BLACKWATER BAY**

“Who’s that from?” Tycho asked, sulking from his corner of the room. The island trembled beneath his feet. It was as though it breathed, _in and out_ , all day and night. He hated everything about the mournful place – most of all the brooding pirate whose arse was firmly planted on _Dragonstone’s_ ugly throne. The irony was that _Braavosi_ money paid for every wall in this filthy establishment.

Daario rolled the message up and tapped it on the black glass beneath his arm. “The Wall. Lord Commander Thorne implores me to mine obsidian and send it North.”

“Odd request. What does Castle Black want with old dragonglass?” Tycho was not exactly a prisoner but he couldn’t very well swim off the island and though he’d bent the knee to Daario it was taking some time to locate a ship. “What aren’t you saying?”

“Thorne says it is to fight an army of dead men marching on The Wall. Ordinarily I’d toss this into the fire but after what I saw in Essos… I’m not so sure.”

“I’ll not deny the East has problems.”

“You said it yourself that your neighbours beyond the Forest of Qohor have fallen silent. The trade routes of the Far East have run dry. Terrible stories trickle in from those traders that survived. I stood in the ruins of Yin while corpses tore it apart.”

Tycho shifted uncomfortably. “I am a man of numbers, not superstition.” He began quietly. “That said, a pair of dragons dug their claws into my home. What are you going to do? Did Thorne offer to pay you?”

Daario laughed quietly. “With what coin? The Night’s Watch have an abundance of snow and that’s it.” He kept tapping the message on the stone – thinking. “I’m going to mine the obsidian and send it North. The pirates are restless and it will give them something to occupy their minds and keep them fit. There is shit stirring at the edges of the world. Only a fool would ignore it.”

“Where are you going?” Tycho tried not to let panic rise in his voice. As much as he distrusted Euron at least he was born in _Westeros_ and understood the games of ransom and reason. He had no wish to be left alone with the savages that roamed the halls.

“A walk. You will stay.”

“And my ship?”

There was no reply.

*~*~*

The waves of _Blackwater Bay_ were low and cold. True to their name, they sulked in a dark grey stain, tainted by the obsidian beneath the waves. Nothing grew under the water. It was like ice – a clean slice. Daario walked along the shore to the left of the pirate fleet. The beach was made of rolled glass that glistened like dragon eyes broken up by the white bones and shards of armour. A miserable island of death and war waiting to meet its end beneath the waves. No wonder the conquerors of old abandoned it.

Targaryens had a fondness for dangerous ports. _Valyria,_ beautiful as it was, morphed quickly into a tragedy of ash. Daario turned so that his back faced the sea. He’d expected to be met by the angry shadow of the mountain but another cloud had passed overhead and curled around its tip.

A shrieking mass of gulls caught his eye. They were skipping over the rise of an old lava flow that sat a few feet above the water. Every now and then one of the larger waves crested over the rock and drowned the hundreds of glimmering pools. The seagulls picked their way through the contents, prying molluscs and seaworms free of their hides.

Among the marine graveyard sat a man, withered by time and weathered from the storms. His silver hair was so long that it caught on the rocks while the scrap of material worn as a tunic was actually construct of old Baratheon banners sewn together with very little skill.

Daario made his way over to the man, striding up the slippery rise of rock. The sea churned and the spray spat in his face. He tasted salt on his lips.

“You there-” he started, as he closed in on the man. He could have been a hundred or a thousand… Whatever he’d been in youth had given way to the shrivelled corpse of time. “-do you have a name?”

The old man looked toward the young voice. His eyes were white like pearls, blind as the clouds set against _Dragonstone_. “Iii’ll not troubble you, ser.” The man’s voice shook. Dragging it from his parched throat was a battle of its own.

“No – you don’t have to move.” Daario said quickly, when the man tried to pry himself from the rock. He’d been fishing, albeit unsuccessfully. There was a threadbare bag beside him that rattled with oyster shells. “We’re only interested in the castle. The shore is yours.”

His words did not stop the man from packing up. He’d lived through many armies and lords. None of them worth a toss for their word. “Last maan said thatt burned ‘is men alivee on that beach o’er there.” Despite his blindness, the man correctly pointed to the stretch of beach in front of the castle which still bore the remnants of pyres.

“Stannis Baratheon and the Red Witch. I heard of them.” Daario nodded. “We’re not interested in that sort of thing.”

“Gold...” The man replied. “I can hear you chippping away a’ it. Soft. Sh… If you listen…”

_Mad._ Daario resigned to leave the man to his business.

“I hear them too...” The old man added. “Screechin’ on the air. Do you ride with dragons, ser?”

Daario paused. He tilted his head, eyeing the man more carefully. It was not some poor fishermen. They knew nothing of kings and dragons. “I do  but I am no ser in a lord’s army. I am a pirate and my queen is coming with her dragons.”

“Her name?” The old man prompted, managing to stand. His dead eyes set themselves on Daario.

“Daenerys Targaryen.”

The old man covered his mouth in shock.

“You know her?”

“Know her?” He whimpered. “I was here the day she was born into this raging world and held her mother’s hand until the end.”

* ~*~*

It was a difficult passage around the sea caves but the old man straddled the rock as though he’d grown as a part of it. His feet knew every hold while his hands slid into the nooks beside lazy grey flat crabs who shied away from the motion.

Daario’s sword dragged against the unforgiving stone as he skirted down the last drop and landed in the mouth of a shallow stream. To his right lay the sea and to the left, the gaping mouth of a cave. The river spewed from its  lips – a constant stream of fresh water which the old man scooped into his mouth.

As they stepped inside, Daario noticed the walls glitter where flecks of quartz corrupted the glass resembling the night sky.

“You were a knight,” Daario observed, nodding at the pile of armour left against the wall. Most of it had fallen to rust at the constant beck of the salt air but he could still make out a pair of dragons on the breastplate. Before he could ask any more questions his attention was drawn to the pile of rocks at the centre of the cave. It was a burial pyre like those made by the ancient Children of the Forest.

“There was no earth ter bury her in...” He lamented, placing his hands upon the mound. “So I laid her ‘ere. Where they’d not find her.”

Daario’s boots crunched over the river stones. He was beginning to understand. “Rhaella Targaryen?” He asked, to which the old man whimpered.  _Daenerys’ mother._ Daario knelt in the shallow water and dipped his head, muttering one of his ocean prayers.

“You are Ironborn...” The old man said. “I did not know the-e realm had fallen so far.”

“We sail beneath the dragon banners, old man. Live a little longer and you’ll hear the last of that bastard usurper empire fall beneath her wings.” He lifted himself out of the water. “Your name, ser?”

It had been so long since he’d uttered it that the old man could scarce remember. He’d become something else, living among the birds and creatures of the sea. Soon he’d be no one at all. Just another pile of bones on the beach for the gulls to pick at. “Ser Willem Darry...” he replied with a mournful air. “Last of the Queensguard.”


	83. The Shield that Guards the Realms of Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for our dearly departed Lord Baelish.

 

###  **BRONZEGATE – THE STORMLANDS**

Another night drew in _another_ storm. They built over the waters of _Blackwater Bay_ and thrashed themselves against the mountains. It was akin to the tide, rising and breathing over the land nightly regardless of the quarrels between men.

Violent streaks of light stabbed at the ground, flashing above before vanishing into nothing. The boom that followed sent Gilly to her knees. It vibrated in her ribs and shook the walls of the castle where she and Little Sam took refuge. They stayed in the cells where the wild weather could not reach them. The darkness and colossal breadth of stone was a comfort. Besides, she’d seen her fair share of prison cells. Compared to the animal-skinned hut of her father, this was almost pleasant. To distract herself from the rumble she surrounded herself with scrolls, books and candles that the maester of the castle allowed her to read. Learning the Common Tongue was her salvation. She’d been loath to leave the citadel with all its shelves of knowledge.

_Ash_ stalked nearby, chasing rats. It loved the darkness  which was  filled with the  scratch of rodents.  S he  practised hunting. Stalked the  artificial night of the dungeon. Every now and then Gilly heard it leap off a stone ledge and land in a puddle of wing and tail.  _Ash_ was not much bigger than a rat herself. Who knows what  _Ash’d_ do if she actually caught one of the rodents.  The  silver  queen had decided that the cells were safest place for the tiny dragon  to roam.

Little Sam curled up on the pile of blankets, sound asleep. Gilly turned another page in one of the old books. She was reading about the history of  _King’s Landing_ .  There were many things that she did not understand. Descriptions of customs, clothing and weapons that she had no base to compare. She read about the birth of the city, built out of wood and mud by the first dragon, like any common hearth in the North. The South, was no so different  except that they’d enjoyed more time away from Winter to build. What she’d originally believed to be the creation of gods was just the product of time  and peace.

“Have you seen it before?” Darkstar announced his presence as he descended the steps into the dungeon, carrying a torch.

Gilly looked up from her book  and saw his slender figure, so unlike the Northern men to which she was accustomed . “Seen what?”

“The great city of Westeros. Have you been to the Capital?”

She shook her head. “No. I seen Oldtown though – an’ Dorne. Walked straight under The Wall.”

Darkstar set his torch in one of the iron holsters attached to the wall. “I’ve always wanted to see The Wall.” He admitted. “I want to go beyond it – to the furthest reaches of the empire.”

“What for?”

“To see what’s out there...”

“Nothing but snow an’ death...” Gilly sighed, flicking another page of the book. It fell open to reveal a painting of _King’s Landing_ , blushing pink against the parchment. “Soon as you see what’s beyond The Wall you’ll want ter come back to the warm waters o’ the South.”

“I am the last of my line. There are only two duties remaining to me. Raise children and guard the sword of our house for the generations to come.”

“Then what are yer doin’ in the company of the dragon queen?” Surely that was the most dangerous place to be?

“Guarding the sword. Her ice-knight carries it.” A rustle against the stone distracted Darkstar. He turned, eyes picking through the darkness.

“Careful. The dragon is ‘ere playin’. The Queen did not want it causing trouble above until it’s tamed.”

“A dragon cannot be tamed.”

*~*~*

“These are the storms I was born in.” Daenerys sat on the window sill, despite Jorah asking her not to. The wind propelled the rain onto her but she did not move – allowing it to drip from her clothes and boots as though she were a grotesque carved into the castle. “I thought I’d enjoy them more.” The emotion was stronger than that. _She hated them._ They were not like the storms across the _Dothraki_ plains. Those she felt in the ripple of the long grass and smelled upon the air. They sang songs of freedom and violence – the very soul of the horselords. These storms were vengeful. Full of the Old Gods’ wrath.

Jorah stood beside her, leaning on the wall  and close enough to reach out if she were to slip though he’d never admit to that . It was late in the evening and he’d long ago laid his armour on the floor and pulled on a woollen shirt. The layers of fur and leather suited Northern men, as if they were born to wear it. “They remind you of your mother’s death...”

“Yes...” Daenerys breathed. “I keep thinking about her laying in that place. Dying as her empire crumbled into the sea. I know my father was mad but she was mad too – with sorrow and drink.” She startled softly at Jorah’s hand coming to rest on her knee. A moment later, she placed her hand over his.

“By all accounts, Your Grace, it was circumstance not blood that sent your mother into madness. Even the Kingslayer was sympathetic to her situation. It is because of love for her that so many mismatched men of the realm fought to save her children from Robert’s blade – even against their honour.”

Daenerys brushed her thumb across the back of his weathered hand. “And this, ser Jorah, is serving me against your honour as well?”

“You know the answer to that.” He replied quietly.

“What kind of love makes us betray that which we should honour?” She questioned the storm. It answered with another clap of thunder, like the snap of a dragon’s tail.

“There is no use unpicking the world,” he warned, “for it will unravel and leave you with the threads of anarchy. Better to live, best you can, with the contradictions rife in your soul.”

“I understand your words,” she whispered, as the wind kicked her silver hair back across her shoulder. Another shower of rain ran down her clothes and bit down to her skin reminding her that she was alive. “But what do I do when forced to choose?”

Jorah looked to her seriously for he had asked himself that question many times. “You will only know the answer to that when it faces you.”

“You chose once before – defying the command of your king.”

“Aye. The choice was as clear then as it will be for you. Do not waste your time fearing the challenge.”

She closed her eyes against the storm. As always, ser Jorah was her wisest council. Varys and Tyrion, they fancied themselves men of knowledge but their minds were clogged with other people’s words and schemes. They lacked Jorah’s clarity which was born amid the silence of the snow. “Did you send the raven to Tyrion?”

“Yes, several hours before the storm. We’ve been granted a blessing with the fall of Casterly Rock. Cersei will not enjoy that stab at her vanity.”

“And Daario?”

“Sailing with his pirate hoard into King’s Landing as we speak. Invited, can you believe, by Cersei herself to deal with the religious crisis. Olenna’s ploy worked. Cersei thinks she’s hiring un-guilded sellswords to murder a flock of Sparrows. We let the violence play out and Daario ingratiate himself inside the Red Keep and then...”

“And then it starts...” Daenerys finished.

“We’ll march tomorrow and keep the army in the _Kingswood_. All you have to do is keep a handle on the dragons or they will spoil the surprise.  Come out of the rain, Your Grace,” Jorah whispered. “You’re fire proof – not water resistant. There’s no point in you catching some Southern illness.”

Daenerys wondered if he could feel  her cold in his bones. There were no rules regarding how blood magic worked. She doubted that Quaithe knew the exten t of the magic wrapped around  their  skin. Whatever the truth, she allowed Jorah to drag her off the ledge and back into the warmth of the room. He walked her over to the fire where he stood behind her and reached around, unlatching the silver clasps that held her  fur coat. With the barest flick of his fingers, it slid off her shoulders and into his hold. Jorah walked it over to one of the stone chairs where he hung it to dry. It rained from the  trim , turning the stone beneath black.

“You are freezing.” Jorah muttered irritably. He’d not felt her this cold since they’d been in the North. “Some time soon we will need to fashion warmer attire for the army. Your Dothraki will freeze before they reach The Neck in their loin-skins and the Unsullied cannot continue to wear their armour on bare skin. Metal burns as surely as fire when things get properly cold.”

“There’s no point making clothes until we take the Capital.” She quietened as he returned to stand in front of her and work her heavy leather tunic off. She’d already done a fine job of ruining the leather but her clothes were made for war, as they should be. Indeed, Jorah often though those early years with the _Dothraki_ had left her with the eternal appearance of a warrior. “Wet right through.” He scorned further, as he reached the under dress.

“Shall I sleep in the fire?” Daenerys teased.

“Like Ash? That dragon has a love for the flames that even your children cannot claim. I think she was born in the fires of The Shadow Lands. I-” He had gone to say something else but Daenerys laid her arm on Jorah’s shoulder and tipped her body forwards, balanced on her toes.

Her lips silenced him, stealing that final breath. It was unfair, she knew but her will was not always as rational as his. Perhaps it was as he’d said, an unreasonable conflict to want ice to cure the cold.  Eventually his arm rose to cup her back and take the weight off her feet. In these debates she’d  _always_ win.

*~*~*

“Quiet now. She’s comin’ o’er...” Gilly warned.

They sat together in the cell amid the rustle of flame and parchment.  Darkstar had been helping  Gilly read for many hours  as the storm rumbled off into nowhere. Darkstar could hear the creature creeping up on him. One clawed foot after the other placed upon the stone and the occasional sweep of scaled tail.

“Does she mean to pounce upon me?”

“Unlikely...” Gilly replied. “Ash is curious, like any child.”

“Tell that to the rat.”

“Place your hand out – like _this_.” Gilly showed him and Darkstar copied. “Now stay still and you might be lucky.”

“It is a mystery to the Dornish how the rest of the realm could have forgotten dragons.” He said, as they both waited. “They were not beasts of obscure legend like the unicorns of Skagos or the mercreatures stealing sailors from their ships. Real scars of their existence can be seen all across the land, from Westeros to Essos. Their bones lay in the Red Keep and some eggs are kept in private collections. Many famous people through history were murdered in their flame and the entire foundation of the Seven Kingdoms was built on the wings of dragon conquest.”

“I can.” Gilly replied quietly. “People forget a lot of things. Where I lived, ev’ry time a male child was born, men made of ice came out o’ the woods and took them. Real creatures. Though most o’ us had seen them and their children were taken, the camp continued as though it were not real. A delusion. A lullaby of silence to make the nights bearable. Maybe the Southerners don’ want to remember dragons.”

“A lot of people died. More than any of these books will ever say.” He was thoughtful. “We’re living in the hush… A tiny fraction of the world has been left standing after thousands of years of slaughter. Our cities are nothing to the Empires that came before and even Westeros – this oddity of conquest – is a slip of itself before the fall of the dragons. But,” he reasoned, “their deaths purchased what we call civilisation so on balance, I’d say it was a price worth paying. Oh – hello...” He felt the little crimson paw touch his palm. _Ash_ was about the size of the rat she’d taken down but lighter. Like birds, dragons had hollow bones that helped keep their weight in check. She was curious too, blowing smoke over his skin with a surge of warmth. “She’s getting redder...” He remarked, trying not to move as the dragon encroached. “I never imagined they’d be so beautiful. Those books fail to mention it.”

_Ash_ really was  stunning . She had more in common with a jewel than the remains of a bonfire. Even as she tilted her head from side to side, her scales shifted colour,  never able to settle.

“Sharp spines...” He nodded at the curved black protrusions.

“The knight doesn’t think anyone will be able to ride her. Watch out...”

Darkstar flinched as the dragon bit down into the soft flesh beneath his thumb.

“Gettin’ a taste of yer. Stay still.”

It wasn’t easy with the fangs embedded in his flesh. The dragon tried to drag his hand backwards into the shadows – growling and hissing. “Are you certain?”

Gilly’s face was stuck somewhere between a frown and amusement.

“No – no _enough_ ,” Darkstar reached over with his other hand and picked the creature up. It did not let go but at least away from the ground it could not tear at him. “Do they always chirp?” He added, after the little thing had calmed down and made himself a nest inside his palms.

Gilly shrugged. “This is my first dragon. You would have to ask the queen. She raised three.”  She foraged through her satchel and withdrew a length of cloth. “Here...” Gilly shifted closer and wrapped the fabric around the hand  _Ash_ had successfully chewed. “On balance, I think she rather likes you.”

“Typical. Dragons showing their affection through acts of violence.”

“You look a bit like one of them,” Gilly added, tying off the bandage. “With the-” she pointed to his long strip of white hair. “Like the queen, I mean. An’ the eyes.” His were purple, like amethysts.

“I’m a Dayne, not a Dornishman.” He clarified. “Our house is ancient and small – founded before Dorne. Who knows, maybe the dragons came to Westeros more than once.” No one really knew.

“He’s my third,” Gilly nodded at Little Sam, who was sleeping peacefully. She was thankful that he’d taken after her and not Craster. “My others were taken by the ice creatures – two little boys. I’m not sure I want to go back to the North. What if they are grown into those hideous things? What mother should face such a thing… I dream of them sometimes, wandering in the snow. Soulless. Mindless. Corpses in service of a god I don’ understand. Is there anything more terrible?”

Darkstar was yet to see and understand the scourge of death that had taken over the top of the realm  but he had seen one of the creatures with his own eyes  _and lost_ . “Do you need to travel North?”

She nodded. “I cannot leave Sam on his own and he must go North  to join his king .” Gilly drew her knees up to her chest. “Sam doesn’t know about the other children.”

“Why tell me?” Darkdstar asked, holding the dragon closer against his chest as it settled.

Gilly returned her gaze to Little Sam. “I cannot stand secrets,” she whispered. “I’ve never mourned them – those two little children. That was not the way of those beyond The Wall  an’ I don’t want him thinkin’ about that when he’s out fightin’. You don’t believe he fights? No one does but he killed one of those dead things. Only a handful of men in all of history have done that an’ he did it for me. ”

*~*~*

Marwyn, Quaithe and Sam maintained an awkward amnesty inside  a tent pitched alongside the river. Sam felt as if he’d been appointed mediator between the two creatures. One – a practitioner of magic and the other, an avid  purveyor .  Instead of being natural allies they were distrustful of each other.

“What did you do to the old cunt, then?” Marwyn asked, as his hands wrapped around the bowl of unidentifiable stew. “Blood magic for sure but nothing I’ve ever read. Walking out of fire like _that_? No. That is no common spell.”

“There are many things for which you remain uneducated.” Quaithe replied, staring devoutly into the flames. She’d been withdrawn since the events of _Summerhall_. Those memories long buried were breaking the surface. She could not close her eyes for fear of being drowned by  fire.

Sam shifted uncomfortably. It made no sense in his mind for them to quarrel. “I recognised some of the symbols  on Mormont’s arm ,” Sam cleared his throat. “Church of Starry Wisdom? Only, I saw it in a book. ”

A little surge of pride rose in Marwyn. Most students  _pretended_ to read the ancient scrolls he assigned. This Night’s Watch man actually  _did_ or he got his woman to do it . “That’s what our Targaryen friend practices – among other things.”

“Isn’t it – I don’t know, a _dead_ religion?”

Quaithe scoffed – Marwyn grinned. “Religion  _of_ the dead, perhaps.” Marwyn corrected. “Asshai is a place where many things the world forgot are still practised. Though I take your point. That particular religion was always considered ‘fringe’ after it brought about the end of the world...”

“ _That_ is a misconception.” Quaithe’s eyes cut through her mask. “Though the stone, I grant you, is a sickly thing.”

“Which you left in the hands of a pirate… One of the most important relics of the ancient world. No wonder the realm believes Targaryens to be mad. What was that save madness of the highest order?”

“It was deeply considered care...” She snapped. “The last thing you want is the Bloodstone falling into Daenerys’ hands too early. If the pirate turns sick and murderous – what is the difference but if the queen were to fall under its magic then she may not make it to the start of the Great War. You want to see the world aflame? That’s the surest way to achieve it.”

“I agree with you that the queen must be kept away from it but why not keep it yourself?”

“Because I heard its whispers… They are strongest for those that know how to listen. There is no one less able to guard a thing like that than me. Except perhaps _you_ , Marwyn, for you view it as a thing of beauty to be worshipped and we both know how that ended last time.”

“Sorry – I realise I’m the illiterate child in this tent but what is this Bloodstone?” asked Sam.

“The Bloodstone is a small black stone that legend says fell from the sky a very long time ago.”

“Oh – we have those up North an’ all. There’s a bit of it in the library at Castle Black. Some of the old maesters said a star fell and hit the lands near The Wall before there was a wall – ‘s why there’s nothin’ but black glass beneath the ice.”

“Similar but this stone’s strange. Has a magic of its own. Like the most expensive whore in the establishment.” Marwyn had coveted it for a long time. “I believed it to be a fable. It does not sit well with me that some pirate plucked it from nowhere.”

“All these years studying prophecy, Marwyn and yet you learn nothing.” Quaithe scorned. “I let you read the pages of the old stories – to look upon witch-words whispered while the Empire of the Dawn still breathed. Why make the trip across the world in that wretched boat if not to believe?”

“What were the words?” Sam asked, innocently. Quaithe hissed them for him. “Jon was brought back by fire for a purpose. Perhaps this is it.”

Perhaps… Quaithe mused, but her and Marwyn knew better.

“Careful with ‘purpose’ Tarly.” Marwyn warned. “When the gods hold the purse strings the world burns or drowns. Our gods are wracked with violence – all of them. This new found reverence is a product of a long Summer. When the Winter comes, men will remember what it was like to fear.”

“I’ve not forgotten fear,” Sam insisted. “But convincing everyone South of The Wall that the dead are coming for them is impossible. How do we show them that these violent gods have returned?”

“There’s no need.” Quaithe murmured through her mask. “That is what the queen is for. Her armies follow her regardless of belief because they are bonded by something greater.”

“Honour – love?”

“The very same fear.” She replied. “Only a fool would love a dragon.” That is why dragons married dragons, back through time.

*~*~*

Jorah broke from her lips when his hip hit the edge of the stone table. She’d backed him into it – pushed him across the room with her fervour and strength few attributed to her. Daenerys’ delicate hands were on his chest, smoothed over the woollen jumper – curled in it. There was only a moment before she leaned in and kissed him again, mouth open against his with more force than before.

She was _exactly_ like a warrior, he thought, blood high before the battle. He managed to turn them around and lift her onto the table. Her hands grabbed the bottom of his jumper and dragged it off his body in a rush of fabric – then his shirt, the cotton left to fall to the stone. Here she paused, tracing her fingers across the strange markings that Quaithe had left upon his skin. It was not the future she feared. In her dreams it was never him that died. It was _her eyes_ that glassed over with the Winter chill and her hands that clawed under the ice, trapped on the other side of the veil with screams only she could hear.

“You walked out of the fire with me,” she noted softly, as her lips pressed a series of kisses to his chest among the scars that crossed it like spider web – uneven, pearl scratches. “Not a burn.”

“Blood Magic.” Whatever that entailed. He felt more than he let on. “It manifests in unpredictable ways.”

Daenerys understood that better than most. It was a lesson learned in the desert with a screaming witch and a horse’s blood. A child ripped from her and turned to ash. Yes. Blood Magic was fate’s coin. “Have you agreed to my request?”

Jorah dipped his head. Her legs had wrapped around his body, holding him in place if he’d felt inclined to flee. “I have but _without_ the saddle.” He insisted. “Viserion does not like it and I’d rather him not be trying to shake me off. What do we do with Rhaegal?”

“Let him stretch his wings. Of the three, he is least likely to bring about a hell storm.”

“Indeed, that crown lays with Drogon.”

*~*~*

“Is there no one special, then – back home?”

_Ash_ perched on Darkstar’s shoulder with her tail threaded through his hair. Even if he’d wished to move he could not untangle the spines from his hair. Gilly shuffled over to help, unpicking the dragon from him. “There was,” he replied, “but she died.”

“I’m sorry...”

“At the battle for The Sunspear. She was a princess and a fighter.” He spoke of her warmly. “To what end? The gods tossed her aside with the rest of the dead. Some say the deserts surround Dorne because the earth is poisoned by blood. Superstition to be sure but there is no denying the crunch of bone beneath the sand.”

“At least your dead stay in the ground.” Gilly replied, prying the dark and silver hair out of the dragon’s spines. “There we go.” She held up the wriggling dragon. “Do you mind fetching the cage?”

He retrieved it from the far side of the room. “You’re not heading into King’s Landing when the fighting starts, I trust?”

She shook her head. “No – I’m to head onto Dragonstone with the other party where we’ll await the queen.”

“Is that wise with the pirates?”

“Loyal to Daario,” she reminded him, “and we will have an army of our own.”

“I used to keep lizards,” he added, as _Ash_ was coaxed into the cage for the night. “There were many in the sands where I grew up. They were easy enough to catch.”

“Why?”

“They were my friends,” he explained. “And for the longest time I convinced myself that they returned my bond of childhood affection. That the occasional seeking of comfort in my presence was friendship.”

“What was it?”

“A misunderstanding. I fear dragons are similar. We may befriend them – love them, even. Teach them tricks and think of them as we do the horse and dog but they will never be these things. They are dragons...”

###  **WINTERFELL – THE NORTH**

“Ser Jaime, a raven.”

Jaime’s eyes cracked open, displacing a fresh layer of frost trying to knit his lashes together. His golden hand had been abandoned for a wooden replacement made or ash-coloured Ironwood while every Southern man now wore armour covered in layers of leather and fur. The snows weren’t just falling, they were biting at anything that breathed. Even the pine forest had begun to crack under the weight of ice with trees tumbling through the night. They retrieved their corpses every morning and cut them up for firewood.

“You’re up early,” he took the sealed message from Brienne. She lingered nearby, standing in the snow looking over the Godwood. Smoke and rank festered in the air but at least _Winterfell’s_ walls were starting to climb again.

“There was another wolf attack at dawn,” she replied. “A dozen men were sent out to chase them off. One came back short an arm. Vicious things. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Then you’ve clearly never met a Direwolf.” Jaime snapped the wax seal and unravelled it best he could with his new hand. It was going to take some getting used to. “Those ugly bastards are rumoured to be the size of horses.”

“Snow had Direwolf at Castle Black. No one ever said it was that big.”

“Then it was a puppy.” Jaime assured her and then fell silent as he read.

“You all right?” Brienne turned to face the frost-covered Lannister only to find him paler than the ice clinging to his hair. “Something’s happened. What’s happened?”

He pried himself off the ground. “I have to leave at once.”

“Leave? You can’t _leave._ There’s another blizzard on the way. It’ll be ten bellow by noon. You’ll bloody freeze! Oy!”

Jaime stopped when she grabbed hold of his cloak. “I guess you’ll find out anyway.” He reasoned, though he was inclined to tell her everything which was a truly bad sign. And so he told her about _Casterly Rock_ and the hoard of _Ironborn_ pirates crawling over his home.

“You still can’t go.” Brienne insisted. “It’s not just that we need your men here in Winterfell, they wouldn’t survive the road back in weather like this. Not a Southern army. You’d loose a third to the cold.”

“I’m not taking the army.” Jaime shrugged her hand off his shoulder.

“Then-”

“It’s only me. I have to ride to King’s Landing. Cersei is surrounded on all sides. I cannot leave her and Tommen with the enemy at the gates.”

“But she hasn’t written to ask that of you. You’ll be in defiance of her order.”

“So be it.”

“Jaime...”

“That is my _son_.” He proclaimed boldly. “I _must_ go.”

*~*~*

Littlefinger winced as he slid his arms into his cloak. The warm garments hid the bruises well enough but the cold made every knock a deeper agony. It ate away at the smallest chink in a human’s armour and tore at it like a lion.

_Casterly Rock_ was a hovel for inbred pirates to which he was able to draw a bit of enjoyment. Chaos. Unpredictable and thrilling. The more pieces that fell off the board the easier the others became to move. That’s why it was such a shame that meddling Lyanna Mormont had managed to shore up the North with irritating success. Being played by a ten year old was no one’s idea of a good time but vexing as it was, there was no way to remove her without introducing serious risk to his own safety. He’d have to work in compliment to her which meant he had to find out what she really wanted.

He made a point of walking  _Winterfell’s_ courtyard. A show of strength against the brutish  Royce. He didn’t much like the look of the Hound either. That creature sulked about at the far edge where the wall met the lean-tos. A man comprised nearly entirely of cold stares and, what he presumed to be, murderous thoughts. Sansa kept him within range.  _Her_ guard dog and so Littlefinger was ever so careful not to antagonise him.

“You tend the ravens yourself?” Littlefinger asked, when he came across Lyanna in the snow with a pair of cages and flock of ravens picking seed out of the ice. She was airing them, to keep their feathers free of disease. If you left the birds in squalor they died fast.

“As you see, Lord Baelish.” Lyanna replied. She was aware that _he was aware_ that she’d betrayed him and yet they chose to talk about the weather. “You can probably appreciate how good it feels to stretch your wings...”

Baelish’s eyes were as cold as Winter.

Lyanna merely smiled.

“Ah, mister Payne.” She turned to the crunch of boots in the snow. “You’ve found it then.”

“Just Podrick, m’lady,” he replied, approaching with a bucket. “Lord Baelish.” He dipped his head when he caught sight of the man lurking beside her. Baelish took his leave. “You shouldn’t be talking to that one on your own.” He added. “He’s not-”

“-to be trusted? Aye. I know. Try to remember, Payne, I’m the one with the sword.”

“Speaking of which.” He set the bucket of fresh water down and the birds dived on it immediately, drinking and cleaning themselves in the warmth. Then, he undid his cloak and drew his sparring sword.

“That’s what you brought – a blunt sword?” Lyanna drew her own sword. Its edge was true and sharp.

“I thought we was practising?”

“We are.” She assured him, taking the first swing.

“Is it true – what they – say – that common – steel is – no – good?” His words were interrupted by the strikes of metal against wood.

Lyanna nodded. “True enough. Valyrian steel is near impossible to come by and that new smith won’t be able to make enough of it in time even if he’s half as good as Davos insists. That leaves the rest of us with obsidian.”

“You can make swords out of dragonglass?” He asked, amazed.

“Of course but it won’t hold up against a common sword. Too brittle but I guess it doesn’t have to. Daggers are the strongest but I’m not sure I fancy getting close enough for hand to hand with a walking corpse. You?”

“I’m no good at it, me,” Podrick replied. “Still learning this thing. Lady Brienne tries with me. She needs me alive, you see, to look after the horses and I’m a half decent cook.”

They both interrupted their sparring session with a soft laugh. “ I am certain her concern stretches further than that.  Are you sure she is not a  B ear?”

“You’d think. Tall as heck with the same stubborn loyalty but she’s from Tarth – an island, like you, I guess. I meant what I said before – you should be careful of Lord Baelish. Tyrion, my first Lord, he taught me a great deal about the one they call Mockingbird but chiefly to steer clear of his interest.”

“Lord Baelish is _floundering_ ,” Lyanna replied. “He needs to carve himself out a fresh niche. He’ll sniff at every person of note before the day is out, clawing for a breath of purchase as power slips away.”

“You are very wise for someone so young.” Podrick rested his sword in the snow. “I mean that as a compliment, m’lady.”

“I know you do,” she assured him. “Not a malicious bone in your body. That is your oddity.” With that, Lyanna swung her sword at him – knocking the wooden sword he was using as a prop from beneath him sending poor Podrick tumbling face first into the snow.

“I – I thought we was resting?” He lifted his head out of the freezing powder. The little Bear was smiling.

“Winter does not rest, Payne.”

*~*~*

S ansa descended the crumbled steps into the crypts. They were permanently lit with workers ferrying supplies into the spare chambers to survive the Winter. That was their original purpose. The bodies came later… Along with the stone guardians and nameless faces that stared into nowhere as Sansa passed. Her past laid heavy in the air. The entire history of the Northern kings could be counted with the step of her feet.

The huge figure ahead of her  stood with o ne hand on the  marble casket. His fingernails scratched away a flare of moss that had taken hold within a crack. Life leeching off death. He could hear his Winter Queen’s soft footsteps. She’d always been a little bird, hopping lightly on the gilded floors of the  _Red Keep_ . He’d tried to save her then, when she was surrounded by all manner of predator but now she’d become one of the wolves guarding her sheep.

Sandor turned and then ran his gloved hand through his wisps of hair so that they covered the scars. He dipped his head.

Sansa lingered at the entrance to the small tomb. The irony, that he should be lit only by firelight. As the years dragged on she was beginning to understand him better and with that came the realisation of his fears. Littlefinger was wrong. It was not what people wanted that was important – it was what they feared. You needed to know both to rule.

“Do you have it?” Sansa asked.

“Aye. I ‘ave it.” Sandor replied. He retrieved a folded cloak and a sword from the coffin and presented it to Lady Stark, who took it with outstretched arms. “If you are sure.”

She tightened her grip on the items. “I’ve thought of little else these last days.”

“There are other ways, Your Grace, to get what you want.”

This time it was Sansa who dipped her head to him.

*~*~*

He hated their pale skeletons and blood-soaked leaves. He hated the faces that howled from their flesh. He hated the whispered prayers that fell onto deaf wood and most of all, he hated what they stood for. Cracks in the fabric of reality… Gateways to unprecedented knowledge which no amount of scheming could pry at. When he leaned against their pulsating bark he heard  _nothing_ but the great silence that would one day take them all. The worlds of magic rejected Petyr, just like the Starks.

Petyr Baelish  _felt_ Sansa’s presence behind him. That was a talent she shared with her mother – one that unsettled him. He turned and knelt in the snow, showing submission to  _his_ queen in the North. They’d not spoken since he’d returned and although he knew Lyanna to be at fault with his brush against death, Sansa’s intentions were clouded in fog.

“Please get up out of the snow, Lord Baelish.” Sansa began. He rose at once but could not free himself of all the snow. It stained the bottom half of his cloak white. “Welcome back to Winterfell.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

She felt for him –  _she did_ . Sansa knew what it was to survive one’s enemies and he had the look of it about him. He was softer. Withdrawn. Careful, even of his words with her. “I did not know.”

His eyes were drawn to the  second, ill-fitted sword at her waist and the bundle of cloth under her arm. “I deserved it.”

“Perhaps you did.” Sansa agreed. “But from these unfortunate events, Winterfell owns the Vale’s army outright. We are safer today than we were yesterday.”

“And _you_ , Sansa.” Her name trickled off his lips before he could stop himself. _Too familiar_ , he reminded himself. “Are you safer today?”

“If by that you mean my new husband, he is far from the worst I’ve endured.”

P etyr could not bring himself to debate that point with evidence of his bruises after the suffering Sansa endured under the Boltons. If Royce felt the need to beat him to maintain his position  _so be it_ . He’d say nothing. “The Lady of Winterfell plays the game well.” He complimented instead.

“I learn.” Her eyes were those of the wolf. She saw things as two worlds – prey and protection. When Winter came one had to decide if they were a threat or a creature to save. Where Littlefinger was concerned, her heart and mind were in constant flux.

“You are wiser than any Stark that came before.”

“A thinly veiled insult?” The edge of her lip curled. She was rather amused with his slights. It was his version of humour that the rest of the world overlooked. “Being aware of faults is the first step to overcoming them. Speaking of which...” Her gaze drifted to the Weirwood behind them.

The snows had fallen heavily during the night, covering the last of the twisted roots while the only evidence of her wedding was a solitary length of lace blowing against one of the lowest branches. It did not escape Littlefinger’s attention.

“Tell me, Baelish...” Sansa began, as she approached both him and the tree until she was close enough to place her hand against the surface. It was warm to the touch. “What would you suggest as a remedy for someone who cannot free themselves of drink?”

Littlefinger shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back. His silver pin caught the light for a moment. “Take it away from them – best you can.”

Sansa nodded. “Something my first husband may have benefited from.”

It was Littlefinger’s turn to smirk. “True enough. Why the question?”

She offered him the parcel of fabric from under her arm. He took it from her and, upon closer inspection, realised it was a Night’s Watch cloak. Then, before he could ask, she undid one of the belts from her waist and placed the sword horizontally across the cloak so that Littlefinger was left holding both.

“My Lady, I am not sure I understand?”

“I imagine not.” Her eyes dropped to the snow. “And it was not my original intention.”

“Sansa?”

Her eyes dragged up to his as though held back by the sea. “You  told me once that it was your wish to serve me.”

“And to love you...” he reminded her.

That was evident in every look and measured word. It was the one attribute in his character that Sansa had never been given cause to doubt. What begun as transferred affection for her mother had evolved into a creature of its own. Twisted as it may be, his love for her was real.

“Then I must ask a service of you. Shall we call it, ‘a leap of faith’, Lord Baelish.”

He looked between her and the collection of items in his arms. “My Lady…?” And that was when he heard the rustle of wind through the leaves of the Weirwood. Oh.  _Oh…_ “You are serious?”

“Your drink is the game of power,” she explained. “I am taking the glass away.”

“I _cannot_.”

“You _swore_ to serve me, Lord Baelish. I ask that you kneel here, before the Old Gods and say the words – pledge yourself not to a crown or a queen  or even to love but to the protection of the realms of men.”

He picked up the sword. It felt ridiculous in his hand. The last time he’d attempted combat it had resulted in the obliteration of his love and life for which he still bore the scars. “How can I serve you if you banish me to the Wall? That is the punishment of a traitor, Your Grace.”

“This is not intended as a punishment. Can’t you see? I want you to _live_. The greatest threat to your life comes from the whispers of royal halls not the army of the dead. You  are the smartest man I know...” And this time she placed her hand upon his shoulder. He leaned towards her, as ever unsure of her intentions. “To serve me best I wish you to use these gifts of strategy where I require them most. If the Wall falls we all die. The games end. Crowns are buried. Birds fall from the sky and spiders withdraw to the shadows. Help them… The Northern men and cast of criminals. Help them to save me.”

She was serious. Her eyes glossed with unshed tears and something he had not expected – fear. Sansa was not banishing him at all – although many would see it as that. Then the words came to his lips and with them the truth. “The North remembers...”

Sansa slid her hand from his shoulder to clasp gently at his neck. Married or not, he’d managed to steal away  her  soul  and he’d take it with him – to the edge of  _The Wall_ . “If we survive, the pretty picture in your mind will slip from the folds of unlikely fantasy and land upon the snow.”

He trembled at her touch. It was a promise of marriage. A coded admission of love. “Yes...”

“Yes...” she echoed him. “Here...” Sansa took the sword from him and slid it from its sheath. The blade was smoky-grey, rippled like oil dropped into water. “Valyrian steel. I had the smith you brought from Lys make it specially. See?” Her thumb brushed over a mockingbird carved near the base. She had made sure that it was _his_ sword – a family sword and the start of a dynasty should he live. A cluster of sapphires were set into the Weirwood handle. “Brienne told me once that every sword needs a name.”

It was the blue jewels that caught his attention. They shimmered like Sansa’s eyes and the flourishes of colour in the snows around  _Winterfell_ . “Winter’s Rose...” he replied. “That is her name.”

“A beautiful name.” Sansa agreed. “May she serve you well in the war to come.”

Petyr turned to the Weirwood tree. “I do not know the words.”


	84. The Steel Bear

 

###  **SHARP POINT – BLACKWATER**

Its obsidian wings beat against the storm winds. Tumbling, the crow fought its way through sheets of rain and bursts of rage. Bravely, it took a turn toward the cliffs that cut their way into the sky in opposition to the stretch of restless water that extended as far as the creature could imagine. To the bird, the _Narrow Sea_ may as well have been the brink of oblivion. It looked to the waves and saw a wall erected by the deep things, whipped up by the Storm God and cursed by all the rest. A hellish expanse – unexplored.

With black wings, the crow felt out of place amid the hail of white feathers from the flocks of gulls, nesting in the furrows of the stone. Others circled the ugly castle that perched at the tip with its feet at the drop. Their screeching drowned out the crashing waves, angry and relentless.

As the crow rounded the final surge of rock and cawed, announcing itself to the maester waiting at the balcony with his heavy chains clinking.

That was the bird’s last breath.

Jaws came from beneath. Curved fangs. Rotten breath. The glint of emerald.

King Tommen’s salvation died on the whim of a dragon.

###  **KING’S LANDING – WESTEROS**

Daario sailed into the harbour with his pirate sails full of salt air and dark promises. The Crown’s fleet had split to allow his passage with their bows pointed diagonally towards his ship like the heads of polished arrows, sparkling gold in the sun while the storm clouds rolled along the edge of the horizon, waiting for another night. They were an odd collection of boats patched together from the King’s remaining bannermen. He’d faced many of them in skirmishes over the decades and won. These were people of the land playing at the sea. Their vessels were built by artisans, not war mongers and they’d make beautiful reefs at the bottom of the ocean where their sailors could dine with the gods below and feast until the end.

The enormous promenade had been cleared for their arrival and adorned with strips of white and red fabric, signalling peace. _A nice touch_ , thought Daario. Tyrells were all about appearances like the rose concealing its thorns. In contrast, lions adorned their dens with bones and pieces of dripping meat.

“Where is the King?” Asked Olenna, sitting in a gilded chair placed at the end of the jetty where it met the shore. There was a small stall set up for shade and a pair of throne-like seats beneath. Behind, the pink walls of _King’s Landing_ stretched above and side to side giving the illusion of an impenetrable fortress. Of course a touch to the stone found its mortar soft while the edges crumbled into the sharp bite of _Blackwater Bay_.

Cersei had taken to strutting side to side, watching the lead pirate ship moor. “You never said it was a fucking Greyjoy,” she stormed through the filth. Servants had swept the fish carcasses away before the stink refused to leave the stone.

“Euron is here for murder and coin.” Olenna assured Cersei, who’d taken on a paler than usual complexion. Perhaps the lion’s dependence on wine was beginning to take its toll on her health. One could only hope. If the gods could take one monster from the world, Olenna prayed it be Cersei.

“You know _nothing_ about the Ironborn.” Cersei insisted. “They pay the ‘iron price’.”

“Once, perhaps. Euron has sailed the world and let it change him. I dare say he’s become a creature of business and opportunity. Ravaging the ruin of the Sunspear was only the beginning.”

Cersei caught her first glimpse of him stepping off his boat and onto the walkway. The sun brightened and for a moment at least, _Blackwater Bay_ turned to sapphire. “Let us hope that you are right,” she breathed, “or your head will join those noble faces already adorning the spikes.”

“I’d make for a poor decoration.” She replied casually but Cersei? She’d look awfully fine as an ornament.

*~*~*

Euron sauntered with all the swagger of his reputation. The shells knitted through his hair and various layers of jewellery all jingled about in the wind. He dipped his head in the shallowest of acknowledgements and rested his hand on the hilt of his golden sword.

Cersei’s gaze sank to it at once. _The Lannister House sword…_ The breath was stolen from her and yet she held her tongue. Euron was surrounded by men and with a sizeable fleet in the harbour and a dragon queen on the way, this was no time for butchering or theft. Trinkets turned the heads of men. Hers stayed fixed. Only a fool felled a kingdom for a jewel.

“I’ve come for a spot of bird watching, Your Grace...” Euron introduced himself.

Everyone’s hands were tense on weapons as Lannister soldiers faced off against the violent rabble tailing Euron.

“Payment-” Cersei gestured to a trunk sitting between her and Olenna, “-half now, half when they’re dead.”

Euron stalked over to the wooden box reinforced with steel bracing to bear the weight of coin. He opened the lid and stabbed his dagger into the metal, snaking it back and forth to check it wasn’t full of sand. Eventually he nodded and four of his men carted it back towards the boat. It was a pitiful accompaniment to the tower of wealth under _Dragonstone._

“We do this our way.” Euron insisted, squaring up on Cersei. She was taller than he was, with flowing gold hair diminished by streaks of grey that glistened silver in the sunlight. Age cracked the skin around her eyes and soon she’d lose the shine of beauty and, like the Stag’s rebellion, legend of her prowess would retreat into the memory of dead men. “You’ll have your plucked corpses. We work to best advantage in the dark.”

“As you wish it.” She agreed. “And when you are done, come to the Red Keep and you can collect the rest of your payment.”

“I know...” Euron stopped her before she could say the words. “And I’ll be taking that payment in _full_.”

Soon after, _King’s Landing_ found itself awash with the world’s criminal class led by a mad man whose reputation for violence lay draped over every tide. Cersei and Olenna had nearly reached the towering doors of the castle and the promise of its safety before Cersei paused, stopping them both.

“If this turns out to be a mistake, you’ll lose twice as much as me.”

“I am doing this for _all_ our children.” Olenna replied. “We may dislike each other beyond repair but we share a bloodline and that throws us on the same side whether we enjoy the reality or not. I’m doing this for their survival. So _what_ , we enlist the services of these butchers? History will judge us more harshly if we let the city wallow in destitute misery until the last bones fall to dust.”

Cersei had never known what to make of the matriarch. She saw her future in Olenna’s grey eyes and it _frightened_ her. “You hate the Sparrows more than I do.”

Olenna did not fight her. “I find that there are some religions so pervasive that they destroy the fabric of civilisation. Others, scattered through the realm remain distant, like whispers at the fire that frighten children and comfort adults through their nightmares. Then there are those that judge man by something more than invisible lines in the sand. The Faith of the Seven, despite their grandiose promises, bring nothing but misery. Every time they appear in history they must be cut from the heart of the city with a blade. Their words are swords and their prayers writ in blood.” Olenna stepped past Cersei to the stone hallway leading up to doors which was whipped sparse by the storm winds. “I’d thought you might ask our tame pirate about Dorne...”

A smile curved the edge of Cersei’s lip. “Why open a quarrel before the deed is done?”

It was Olenna’s turn to dip her head in Cersei’s direction. The lion might be the nastiest piece of work in the _Seven Kingdoms_ but she had her father’s sense and there was no higher compliment Olenna could pay. Too bad it would be the death of her. Predictability was more fatal than ignorance in this world of birds and snakes.

###  **THE LANDS OF ALWAYS WINTER** **–** **WESTEROS**

Blue eyes closed to the whispering frosts. The Others – the _dead_ made of ice or those of bone and frozen flesh – stood in endless life. Their corpses stared at the world. Unseeing. Night and day. A never ending torment of survival. Not him… King of the True North where ice was mined like marble and formed into cities beyond the reach of the living. He ruled over them all. This race of ice whose name and manner were beyond translation.

 _Stark._ He remembered his name. It was all he had to cling to. The vicious memory of his life atop the wall he’d built. His flesh survived beneath its prison of cold and somewhere, against the black glass wedged into his chest, a heart beat itself into life. As he breathed he also _dreamed_. While his hoard of vacant foot soldiers waited in the snow drifts, the Night King laid behind a black boulder and let the darkness borrow him. There he danced with Death.

His dreams were always the same. _His_ silver woman picking her way through the green forests on the Northern side of _The Wall_. Freshly built, the blue hues shimmered in the sunlight while her delicate hand caressed the bark of ancient pines. Silent whispers beckoned. Tempted him from his post. Eyes unlike the any he had ever seen darkened as he stepped into the shadow of the forest where the needles were heavy with snow and shed over his leather. A string of amethysts were knit through her hair, settled like stars. When he peeled back her dress he found the purple scar, unhealed, where the knife had dashed her stomach. She smelled of smoke and salt, remnants of starcraft while her songs filled his head with visions of sightless dragons, empires built on stone forged straight from night. Cities that circled mountain ranges and dwarfed the seas. There, he’d loved. Worshipped at her feet with his hands in the snow. His silver queen. A creature of fire locked in a world of ice like a bloom frozen by a storm.

He wanted her more than a man had any right to want a woman. Her skin, when he finally laid a hand upon it, was as cold as ice while her hair fell through his fingers like spider-silk. She was not the same as the ice demons from the depths of the North. Her flesh was pale but living in some form, risen with the darkest whispers of magic. Her kin, long lost to the snows, were shadow binders, necromancers and priests. They’d taken her to a place where ships sailed upon the ice and dragons, whiter than snow, made their nests in oblivion.

She told him about the war beneath the shadow. The creatures that marched upon them from the North. She taught him magic to keep their terrible force at bay and confessed… Even now he flinched at the memory of her truth. Truly good people could be coerced into terrible things by fury. _He_ had done worse for love.

His dreams drifted to his brother’s crypts where the earth was wet and warm beneath the castle. The scattering of coffins cut from stone and the statues of their fathers and their fathers before them, gazing into the darkness with harsh eyes. There, somewhere, laid _her_ coffin drawing creatures of magic.

He could hear the scratch of her black nails against the inside of the lid. Her silent screams as she clawed at the darkness. A prisoner of Winter. His brother’s insurance against his revenge… She was still there, projecting her ghost on the snows while her body waited.

The Night King’s mind wandered and a moment later he dreamt that he was standing beneath the flaming tree at _Winterfell_. There was a raven with three eyes perched on its low branch and a wolf pup in the snow with eyes as blue as his. He moved toward them both. The raven flew off but the pup waited patiently. He knelt down and picked it up by the scruff of its neck. It yelped at him, swiping with its soft paws.

Then he woke. The grey ranks of his dead army waited. The cold sliced through the air. He laid his hand on the breastplate covering his chest, acknowledging the stab of pain that never faded.

###  **KING’S LANDING** **–** **WESTEROS**

The sun took its time, slowly stumbling toward the horizon, setting in the unseen _Sunset Sea._ Above _Blackwater Bay_ the calm waters turned amber, glistening as though the water had been set alight and left to burn.

Olenna sat outside with the wind in her grey hair and the drapery of her veil and skirt flapping against the stone. She spurned the water to watch the Northern edge of the city where the _Dragon Pit_ fires left filthy ribbons of smoke on the air. The streets surrounding them were full of screams as the pirates stepped out, swords drawn.

For all the Faith’s harsh words they were pitiful in the face of true butchery. Olenna tried to imagine the blood painting the cobblestones. _Quick. Clean._ She’d made Euron promise. This was not an exercise in debauchery…

*~*~*

Euron sent his men into the side streets, flushing out vermin and Sparrows. They came back tucking coins into their pockets, thieved from warm corpses. He could not say if they killed more than was allowed and the violence did not bother him as much as he’d anticipated. Mistakenly he’d thought his years in the service of Daenerys had changed his disposition toward murder – or perhaps it was the sickly stone in his hold, poisoning his mind as Quaithe had warned. He even had the self preserving desire to toss the stone into the depths where it could wait out eternity but a deeper force made him clutch it closer.

Ahead, the cobblestoned road twisted upwards, ending in the pale stone walls and collapsing roof of the dragon pit. It was a structure that had endured more pain than the city walls – burned and burned again, clawed at, stabbed, rebuilt and so it repeated since Aegon himself.

As _Ironborn_ , he’d been reared on the promise of slaughter and now he was licensed for it. How jealous Victarian would be when he heard – set up there, alone on his island throne. No wonder he’d flexed his claws at _Casterly Rock_ , pointless as it was. He was a child playing at war. _This_ was war. Carefully plotted. Precise. Ordained by those to the right of the Crown. A game of thrones, gods, men and all the sorry fools in between.

*~*~*

The High Sparrow laid against the immense but severely damaged door of the dragon pit. Behind him, occupying the centre of the arena, was a mighty fire that burned away sin and flesh. Its smoke festered, choking the dwindling flock of devout who streamed from every corner of the city. Their few possessions, cradled in their arms, were soon tossed into the flame. They listened to the screams of their kin and, hour by hour, the silence that followed.

With darkness finally afoot the only sound that remained to them was the hiss of their fire. The High Sparrow tried to imagine what waited for them outside the walls. This place, built to keep the winged demons of foreign oppression, was now a sanctuary for those it oppressed… _He would die here_. The High Sparrow knew that – along with every other soul that had cast his lot in. He could see the pieces of the board falling into place. There was no redemption on offer. They’d struck at the throat of the Crown and missed.

“Come – gather around. Yes – yes, _everyone_.” He addressed the shivering mass of destitute, drawing them all towards the warmth of the fire. He could almost sense the Red God snickering between the flames. For many of them, the last possessions in their grasp were the chains draped over their rags. “A prayer,” he lifted his hands to the night, “to the Seven sets of eyes that watch over us.”

There was a general shuffle of reverence. Several of the hundred kneeled in the dirt among the dragon bones and ash of books.

“To the Father,” the High Sparrow lifted his voice, “who judges as he protects – eternally over all his children. We pray to our almighty that those who visit evil on us this night will so too be judged.” His bare feet felt the cold stone beneath the layers of sand and ash. He was aware, for the first time, how close he was to joining the dust of ghosts passed. “To the Mother, we ask only for mercy and swiftness at the end.” He withdrew a slender knife from his belt – one that was used to slaughter pigs and goats. “Her gift of life we now return.” The High Sparrow gripped the handle with both hands and lifted it above his head as he bellowed, “To the Warrior. Let our swords be words and the blood they spill the sin of unbelievers. Even in death our victory may follow as songs of our end spread on wings across the Seven Kingdoms. To the Smith, our quill maker, who forged these gospels of the Faith. With nib and ink we construct as keenly as the anvil supports the misshapen form of the unbirthed sword. To the Maid then, with her beauty that sets right the ugliness of men’s hearts.” The flames rose higher at his back. They _wanted_ his body. Sensing blood, the other gods circled. Bated breath and sharp claws. He’d not waver to their cause. “Crone – hear our last rattling words and say that they are not those of the damned. Stranger – whose face we cannot see. Like Death we come to you as nameless friends to pass the waters of this world into the next. Purchase then our turn with this – our offering and gift then we breathe our last in prayer of you in all your faces.”

There was no hesitation in his hand or shake of fear. The High Sparrow brought the knife across one wrist then the other – calmly passed the knife to the next man and then let his blood drip into the filth. It flowed in staggered beats, pooling in dark expanses that reflected both the flames and stars.

*~*~*

The door of the dragon pit was dragged from its hinges and fell, unfurling to the world in its gasp of death. Euron stepped over the swaying chains onto the surface and took in the grisly scene awaiting them. Bodies lay in a halo around the dwindling fire – several twitching.

A whisper of disappointment passed the lips of the pirate hoard behind. Their veins pulsed with blood lust and yet it had all been spilled. There was nothing left for them to do but pick their way through the corpses and Euron to saw through the neck of the High Sparrow and take his head, which he shoved into a bag and swung over his shoulder.

“Mount the rest on the outside of the city walls.” He commanded, before turning heel and vanishing into the city.

###  **BRONZE GATE** **–** **THE STORMLANDS**

Jorah slept with the queen’s body twisted around his limbs. She’d entwined herself, like a silk thread on a knight’s banner. He could hear her heart beating against his ribs and feel the warm, steady breath across his chest. Daenerys even slept like a dragon, twitching at the faintest disturbance. Always listening. He dared not open his eyes for fear that he had only imagined her loving touch. These were things they’d agreed not to do and yet they did them… Away from sight where they had only their own will to answer. He was a pawn of fate. He’d never felt that more than on the edge of the blade.

So, with a dragon in his embrace, Jorah gave in to the temptation of sleep and allowed himself to drift. _‘_ _Your dreams are real...’_ Quaithe’s words mingled with his unravelling thoughts. He made a final grasp at consciousness but missed.

_He found himself standing on a bed of ice. A frozen sea, reclaimed by Winter. In the distance shone the crumpled edges where the last motions of tide pushed against the shore and the jagged peaks of ice like rows of dragon teeth thrust in patches. Above the sky stretched, blue as the waters of the Sapphire Isle with only the streak of a red comet marring the scene. The same bleeding star he’d followed in the desert of the Red Waste._

_A crack ripped through the air like thunder in chase of lightning. Jorah turned and saw the devastating corpse of an ancient war ship trapped in the jaws of the frozen sea. As the ice thickened it crushed the hull, splitting Ironwood planks as though they were twigs. It would have sunk except its executioner was also the bars of its eternal prison._

_A group of men were scattered in the ice nearby, picking their way across the frozen desert. They were awkward on their feet, falling every few steps as their smooth soles found nothing to hold. Some stabbed their swords into the ground and used those to steady themselves. They were all tall and slender with waves of silver hair. Jorah was struck by how like Viserys they looked. Each one had an echo of Targaryen blood about them._

_The vision was unstable. It trembled. Faded. Shifted focus. This time Jorah found himself standing beside the leader of the expedition. Not Targaryen… They were older than that. He was a king without a crown who’d sailed far off the map with the skeletal remains of his army. Barley more than bone himself, the Bloodstone emperor fell against the frozen shore and lost hold of his blade. The sword slipped between a pair of black boulders, wedging itself deep within a fissure. The man cried out in heresy and clawed uselessly at the edge of the crack. White roots were knit in the depths of the ice where the sword lay – he recognised them from the white tree on the outskirts of Asshai._

_The Bloodstone emperor had no choice but to leave his long claw of dragon steel in the abyss and press on toward the frozen North in search of his sister-wife._

This time Jorah woke in earnest. He expected to see the predicted storm swelling at the window but the night was eerily clear with a set of stars watching on. There was no need to inspect his skin. His flesh burned with the blood-words. Their stories begged, waking and sleeping.

“I thought you’d never wake, ser...” Daenerys stroked her delicate fingers across his chest. She’d been watching him fight his way through sleep as he had done so many times when her dreams took hold.

Jorah lulled his head to the side to look upon her. The starlight left her more beautiful. She was, as the _Dothraki_ riders bragged, ‘like the moon and the sun all at once’. Daenerys was the silver face of night’s queen and the fire that burned away the darkness. “This was different.” He whispered. “The visions are beginning to feel like memories.”

“Whose?”

“I dread to think,” Jorah admitted. “I do not pretend to understand them but this time-”

“This time _what_?” Daenerys pressed, propping herself up so that she could look on him. Her hair whispered over his shoulder as she leaned down to press her lips to his collar bone.

“It was a strange thing,” he replied, “do you remember when I told you the story of my family sword? How it was found in the ice drifts?”

She nodded. “I remember.” Then she listened a she recanted the story. “Your dreams are not like mine.”

“Dreams like these do not matter at all,” he added. “Only the future matters and we’ll find that soon enough without any help from the gods.”

“Whose gods, I wonder?” She mused. “Don’t you ever wonder whose mercy you are at? I know I do.”

He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, smiling as she leaned into his palm. “That is because you are a creature of magic. It is only natural for you to be curious.”

“The Priests of R’hllor claim me as their own. I’m a saint for a religion I know nothing about.”

“And you are a god for people who will never meet you,” he reminded her. “You will be many things to _many_ people, not all of them you’ll understand or agree with. It is the way of things. So long as they wave your dragon banners, what does it matter?”

She laid her head back on his chest and curled in closer. “I am not my brother. He wanted the tide of people kneeling at his feet. It wasn’t only the crown he desired – it was their love he needed. Losing our parents left him with this gaping hole that he tried to fill with the worship of strangers. That is why he failed. Conquest comes from somewhere altogether more sinister.”

Jorah reached out to touch the bare stone wall. Like everything else in the South, it was warm but insincere. He knew that he’d miss that warmth when their eyes turned to the North once more. “Your desire comes from the need to _protect_. You might not believe that now but that has always been your story, since the day I first met you. Your Grace, I remember, you see...” Jorah fell into a whisper. “Watching you from the crowd of Dothraki savages, sitting on your warlord throne like a bird on a perch. That was a terrible thing you agreed to do but you did it to save your brother.”

“I did it for an army.”

“Yes. To save your brother...” He repeated. Her lies were for other people, not for him.

Daenerys’ eyes were sad. There was an even deeper truth that not even her knight saw. “That was a lie,” she admitted. “I – I did it _because I was told to._ That’s who I was. A young girl at the whim of scheming men. Had I my way I’d have slinked into the multitude – lived as no one. Been happy.”

*~*~*

The Queen’s party moved with the first rays of morning light, trailing out of the ugly castle to a muted fanfare of hesitant villagers. A pillar of smoke trailed into the sky toward the North-West while Varys’ raven confirmed the call to war. Gilly helped to load _Ash’s_ cage onto the wagon before falling into step beside Sam. Marwyn, half drunk, staggered into the light and wiped a line of sweat from his brow while the shadows of dragons, high above, flickered over the ground.

“The gods smile on us.” One of the Dornish soldiers said, sauntering side to side on his horse with the _clack_ of cobblestone beneath. They were nearly outside the town, leaving its comforts behind and embraced once more by the hiss of ocean wind in the pines.

“The gods only smile for war,” Darkstar cautioned his man. “It is the skirmish they await.” A smaller horse cantered along the outside of the path before folding in beside his. The Northern girl had come alive at the scent of violence. Eyes sharp. Sword – even shaper. “This is not your war, Stark,” he advised. “The Capital is a dangerous place for Starks. Even I know that. There’s a curse on your house.”

“Curses are for the weak of mind,” Arya hissed under her breath. “But you needn’t worry. I’m heading North. You might say my name is written in the snows.”

*~*~*

“What’s that now?” Jorah pulled his horse out of line, dragging its reins sharply. _Drogon_ had taken up perch where the forest parted revealing a dusty pathway to the cliffs. The sea sparkled beyond the dragon, who faced the forest, scratching at the ground in a strange manner. “I’ve not seen him do that before.”

Daenerys stepped her horse from the others to join Jorah. Both animals were uneasy facing the enormous obsidian creature. “Where’s Viserion?”

Jorah nodded beyond the cliff to the sky. “Reuniting with Rhaegal.”

“That means Varys and Tyrion are moving into place.”

Jorah wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked with the dragon’s. A tiny river of smoke trickled into the air from each nostril. “He’s watching our convoy.”

“Surely he is not considering picking at one of our horses...”

The squeak of a wagon caught his attention. It was the haphazard creation they’d put together to keep _Ash_ safe. “Look, Your Grace. He is watching the cart.”

He was right. When it moved out of sight into the thick of the trees, _Drogon_ scratched along the cliff, waiting at the next clearing for it to reappear. “Come on,” he insisted, leading the Queen back into the convoy. “For now that is all he is doing.”

She proceeded to lead the convoy through the forest until the horses started to tire. With froth dripping from their lips, Daenerys hissed the order in _Dothraki_ and, wave by wave, the army drew to a halt. The Queen dismounted, slid the reins over the beast’s head and passed them over to one of the horselords.

It was cool beneath the canopy of pines – a sight which entranced her foreign army. Even now, after weeks dragging their hooves through the Stormlands, they still whispered ancient prayers to the distrustful narrow trees that swayed like a warrior’s ponytail. With an army this size you could feel them coming. Their approach was announced with a vibration in the gravel and when everyone stopped the _true quiet_ returned.

She stepped in between the trees – onto the infinite layers of pine needles. They stained the air with a familiar scent that she’d spent her childhood longing for. It drew her deeper. Another woman walked with her, always too far ahead to see anything more than the slip of her torn silver dress and waves of white hair catching in the branches.

###  **WINTERFELL – THE NORTH**

“You sent him away.” The Hound found the Winter Queen in the depths of _Winterfell’s_ crypts, lurking in the dank and darkness like one of the old stories nurse maids used to hiss to frighten children. Red hair to her waist, a thick woollen coat and whole furs draped over her shoulders, Sansa Stark was as frightening as any of those stories. To imagine the entire fate of the North in the hands of one person, wallowing in the darkness. That is how it had always been but the Hound was understanding, for the first time, the whistle of little birds.

“Yes, I sent him away,” she confirmed, without turning from the empty room. “This was meant to be for my brother Robb – a resting place for a king.” Mist lifted from her lips as she paused. “Now it will be mine. Imagine that, ser, I am standing in the place my bones will lay – for all the days to come. I wonder, will they make a statue of me too? Weld a sword into my hand and have me stand watch with the others? They should have given my Aunt a sword.” Eventually she turned to find the old dog with his eyes fixed on her. “You need not look so shocked. I’ve not turned mad – or to drink.”

“You are making peace with Death,” he observed warily. “A common ritual with dumb fucks that hold a sword they don’t know how to use. Not so common with royal blood, mind you, it will spill just as thick and red as the rest.”

“There is more of my blood within these walls than you realise. Go on,” she added, taking a step towards him, “say it. I know you want to and I certainly don’t keep you around for the manners.”

He mulled the words over a few times before they made it out. “Yer’d have been better ter kill ‘im.” The Hound began, speaking of Baelish. “Men like that, they don’ go back in a box because you command it.”

“Do you have dreams, ser Clegane?”

“Every farmer’s boy and his mutt has dreams.”

“Farmers dream of a plentiful harvest. His dog dreams of a decent side of meat tossed for scrap. The warrior dreams of blood. Ladies dream of gallant knights all dressed in armour. Kings dream of cruelty.”

“And what does the little bird dream of?” He asked, softer than usual. Even as he said it, Sandor knew very well that Lady Stark was no one’s little bird any more.

“Worms, insects and all the other lowly things. The dead. You came here with a question, ser – what is it?”

“No question, Your Grace.”

Whatever it was, he’d lost his nerve to ask it.

###  **SHARP POINT** **–** **BLACKWATER BAY**

Varys came to an abrupt halt at the doorway. Tyrion occupied one of the harsh wooden chairs, tilted toward the open window with all the roughness of the wind pouring through. The scream of birds and pulsing of dragon wings was all a wash of chaos in comparison to the stoic imp with a bottle of fortified wine dressed in full battle armour.

“What, pray, are you doing, Lord Tyrion?” Varys opened carefully.

The bottle of sickeningly sweet wine was lifted in reply.

“Need I remind you that we are heading out to the ships in a few moments?”

“Nope. I remembered that.” Tyrion slurred slightly through his words.

“And – you’ve chosen this moment to ensconce yourself in drink...”

“I always drink before a war, Lord Varys. I know more when I drink. A bit of reflection before wholesale slaughter I find improves the odds in my favour.”

Varys arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like awfully similar logic to zealots muttering prayers at the fire.”

*~*~*

Varys was correct, when Tyrion finally stepped onto the deck of the ship, he saw the column of ash rising over _King’s Landing._

“I never took Daario for a man of his word,” Tyrion started, leaning on the railing as their dragon cruised low, dripping its wings in the water, “but he’s keeping to a tight schedule.”

“He’s doing exactly what was born for – murdering and pillaging. The trouble will come when we want him to do something he doesn’t like.”

“Where’s the Queen?”

Varys pointed over to their left where a pair of dragons were flying high near the cloud cover. “The pieces are converging, Tyrion.”

“And you’re _really_ sure you don’t want to try on some armour? I thought the last skirmish at the Sunspear might have wised you up to war.”

“A breastplate over my soft flesh will not increase my life by more than a few moments. No – I shall leave the warring in your capable hands, Lord Tyrion.”

Varys bowed deeply, almost mockingly and Tyrion was left to wonder if he’d been the loose end of a joke.

The pull of the water was tangible as the fleet curved into the channel, letting their hulls creak against the pressure of the water. The cliffs, despite their ominous overtones, provided a measure of protection from the wind but as soon as the entered open water the gale kicked in and filled their sails. Tyrion tilted his head backwards into the slipstream – his golden curls bouncing wildly. Ah yes – the shit stink of _King’s Landing_. It was blowing down from the North. To his left and right the fleet spread out. White capped waves bashed themselves up against the ships. An array of water birds ducked and dived between the rigging, many of them coming to settle on the rail where they cleaned the salt out of their plumage.

Four extra ships sailed with them, courtesy of Lord Emmon. The old man was so broad that Tryion could see him at the prow of his ship, even from this distance, hungry for a slaughter.

‘ _Be smart and run...’_ Tyrion whispered to the waves. _‘Run – Tommen...’_

###  **THE TWINS** **–** **RIVERLANDS**

Jaime Lannister pulled his horse to a stop. _The Twins_ stood resolute, mournful sentries over the weary strip of water that divided the North from the South. Frey, Lannister and Baratheon banners hung from the narrow slits of the castles’ windows, shredded at the edges by the icy wind. Beneath, a great slaughter stretched from one side of the river to the other – fields of bodies savaged to pieces and more, bloated and fouled afloat in the river. They were as grey as the buildings, dusted in a new frost.

“ _Come on, boy...”_ He kicked his horse gently. It strode onto the abandoned brid ge, stepping over the corpses. Children and villagers dressed in rags picked the bodies clean of their possessions while a few groups of Frey men dug a shallow grave along the forest line. They kept their eyes on the wood and hands gripped tightly to the handles of their spades.

He stopped above one of the bodies.  _Dogs._ He’d seen this sort of carnage before – in the forests but never on the open fields. The world – it was descending into chaos.

*~*~*

The howl of wolves followed him along the  _King’s Road_ until he was well past  _The Mountains of the Moon_ . They hung as a grey shadow to his left, hovering above the thick pine and _Ironwood_ forest with their highest, sharpest peaks shimmering like a set of knives in the morning sun.

Jaime unhooked his heavy furs and tied them to the back of his horse but left the wooden hand  in place. The cracks of sunshine widened into an expanse of blue the did absolutely nothing to brighten the burned shell of  _Harrenhal._ It was the most miserable of all man’s creations – left to ruin but not quite dead. Festering in its own rot with damp climbing through the ashen walls and the sharp winds kicking free rubble from its towers.

It was manned. Jaime could see several rises of smoke coming but as to their allegiance? Who could tell. Honour was not so obvious without an army. Lately he had wondered how much of the respect he met was based on fear rather than truth. In the beginning it was genuine. Where had that line fallen away?

The stink of marsh wafted over the ever-present mist. A few more hours and he found himself skirting through the edges of  _The Isle of Faces_ . The fiery canopy of  _Weirwood_ trees drowned out all other life. Any pines that tried to grow were suffocated and left as husks, standing in place like the ribs of a dragon. Shallow water splashed at his horse’s angles, running from left to right across the gravel. There were no faces on the trees that faced the road. They were all saplings, barely a hundred years old and stunted from the long Summers.

A murder of crows lines their branches –  _thousands_ of them – shining black eyes watching the road. Jaime dragged his hood further over his blonde hair and hurried his horse along. This  was no place to linger.


	85. Dragon Riders

 

###  **MUD GATE – BLACKWATER RUSH**

Queen Daenerys exited the forest first, striding her white mare over the waxy, mud-soaked grass of the floodplain which flanked the murky river. More of a gushing canal than a majestic river, the _Blackwater Rush_ was bound by artificial walls along the entire Northern bank, right past the edge of the city. The South bank, where Daenerys and her army amassed, tapered toward the water in a natural slant that was spongy and quickly trod to shit by her army – all of which came to heel.

She turned her horse.

The crumbling, rose coloured walls of _King’s Landing_ lifted behind her. Muted by smoke rising with the early morning light, it loomed like a great storm all monstrous and wicked. To her left, the sun had half lifted out of the Eastern water. She could see her armada choking the _Blackwater_ and Daario’s pirate fleet already blocking the mouth of the harbour, trapping the Crown’s forces and rendering them mute.

Her dragons were last to arrive. All three of them swooped in from the ocean, dripping salt water as they landed – one on each side and _Drogon_ at her back, chirping through curved fangs. Their immense weight left their feet sinking into the mud – destroying part of the bank when _Viserion_ stepped too close to the edge. He splashed and kicked at the water before joining his brothers, preening his wings.

Readied for war, every eye was upon her. The _Dornish_ horses were skittish in the presence of the dragons but her faithful _Dothraki_ were as statues in the dunes. Unmoving like the nests they’d found in the depths of the desert and just as harsh. Though wild and varied, every member of her army now wore a red sash replacing their traditional yellow and blue. Today they rode as _one,_ blood riders under a bleeding sigil. Even Daenerys forsook her silver dresses for a crimson cloak and riding pants – leather boots and armoured breast plate. Her gloves were roughened to hold onto the dragon scale and her hair tightly braided and pinned into a bun.

By now the city must know.

There was no hiding the dragons who stood nearly as high as _King’s Landing’s_ wall. The _Mud Gate_ was shut and all its guards hidden in the towers beside. _Drogon_ cleared his throat with a roar.

Ser Jorah Mormont, a pair of dancing bears on his chest, dipped his head in the slightest nod.

“I have seen a world,” Daenerys shouted to her company. Her voice echoed over the flat like the roar of her beast. “Where there are no thrones, no castles and no kings. No light and no warmth. A land of eternal dusk where ice wanders in the sea and crushes up against the bones of our kin along with the ruination of our dreams.”

No one else living, lived or yet to live could give a speech such as this. Daenerys was a _deity_ in the eyes of all those that followed her. A rare creature with the power to march men into hell – to death and have them gladly follow. They believed that spears held for her fought for the moon.

“The game of men is a lie. Dead legions are coming while our coals wither in the snow. Forget your family – forget them _to save them_. Take your sword. Your spear. Your arrow. Take your hands and brace yourself. By your _honour_ you will spare the lives of any you can – for they will march beside you before the week is out and you will be glad of their heart beat when nothing else draws breath.”

She paused as the guttural cheers of war rang out. Shields were beat. Hooves stamped. It was so loud that her dragons stumbled around in the dirt, puffing from their snouts. _Rhaegal_ smelled of fish and _Viserion_ of dust. _Drogon_ , he always smelled of death.

“This is _not_ the stage of our war. _It is a pebble on the road._ ” She finished in _Dothraki._ _“A dune at the coming of the tide.”_ She added in _Dornish._

The sound of the army was so great that even Jorah found it impossible to keep his horse quiet. He watched as the queen threw her leg over and dismounted like a fish ducking between the waves. She approached _Drogon_. Even after so many years of watching her interact with the dragons, Jorah could not help a moment of fear. They were wild creatures and today that was twice as true. The air was riled with war and they shuffled about, agitated.

_Drogon_ was so tall that he had to lay his stomach on the mud before reaching his front paw forward and flattening his wing. She walked along the quivering stretch of flesh, taking a hand hold on one of the bones as the dragon folded the limb back and allowed her to climb onto his bare back. Daenerys had the saddle removed deliberately. Riding bareback into war was a statement in itself. When she was in place, it was her turn to nod at Jorah.

Darkstar reached across for Jorah’s reins which he passed across then dismounted his horse. He too strode across the calf-high grass, letting some of the longer threads whisper across his hands as he approached  _Viserion_ . The dragon knew what was coming – clawing at the mud with great, sinking chunks of it smacking back onto the ground. His tail swished into the water, kicking up a spray causing  _Drogon_ to turn his head and hiss.

It was an incredible sight – the three dragons waiting as soldiers and the castle with all its trembling souls inside, waiting in perfect silence.

The sun lifted higher. The sky shifted from pink to gold and then tapered off to cloudlessness.

_Viserion_ greeted Jorah as a horse might, dipping his head right down to the grass. He reached out to the creature, rubbing its nose. He doubted the  dragon could feel his touch through the layers of steel-like armour but it chirped softly all the same. Then it brought its arm around in a similar, if slightly clumsy copy of  _Drogon_ .

###  **KING’S LANDING HARBOUR – BLACKWATER BAY**

Tyrion lamented his sobriety at the ship’s prowl.

“There is a magnificent depravity in it, don’t you think, Varys?” He said, as the Spider joined him. They had all but barricaded the harbour, butting up against the back of the pirate fleet. Their mismatched men lined the decks in a mock show of force. He could smell their wonderful stink already. He’d be glad of their savagery later in the day. “An elegant board well laid.”

Varys’ face disapproved. He despised war in all its forms. Necessary or not. He was incapable of drawing pleasure from it and abhorred his special skill in the playing of it. Only a mocking god made a man excel at the thing he hated most.

“I do not buy your cheer,” Varys replied, gripping the rail as the rough waves swung them about. “Nor the certainty of this outcome. Your sister is not a creature that understands loss.”

###  **THE RED KEEP – KING’S LANDING**

The High Sparrow’s head lay on its side, its dead eyes staring through the open window in Cersei’s rooms. All its wretched sinews had long since stopped dripping and now began to shrivel like seaweed left out in the sun.

“Sorry darling...” Euron drawled with all of his pirate charm. “That wasn’t part of our deal.”

“Our deal?” Cersei’s hand rested atop the pitcher of wine, gripping the vessel as if it were structurally crucial to her skeleton. “Have you _seen_ the creatures tearing through the sky or the army at the Southern gate?”

“I have.” Euron replied blankly, devoid of Cersei’s panic. “It is of no interest to me. You asked us to kill the High Sparrow and _there he is_ ,” he raised his hand to the High Sparrow’s head, “and all his little chicks are put onto the wall as you wished. You have all that you desire from me. If you want me to fight a war for you it will cost a great deal more than half a chest of gold. _Your Grace_.” He added, with a cheap bow.

“Obviously. I do not expect the service of a Greyjoy without a price.”

“So name your price.”

*~*~*

“ Leave it!” Tommen dragged  Margaery away from the desk where her hands rifled through papers. Whatever she was trying to salvage, it was not worth it. “The Dragon Queen is  _ here _ , there’s no time for any of that.”

T he door slammed open, smashing the wooden handle to nothing against the stone. They both startled, clutching at each other. It was the pirate king, Euron Greyjoy in all his wild glory, stinking of smoke and dried blood, some of it staining his clothes. His garish sword swiped the edge of the doorway as he stepped in.

“ You the rose bud?” He eyed Margaery with silver eyes.

She stepped away from the king, inching bravely toward the strange murderer. She had met worse men than him in her time – far worse. “I am Queen Margaery.”

“Your grandmother is waiting for you in Maegor’s Holdfast. You are to go there now.  _ Alone _ ,” he added, when the queen turned to take her husband’s hand.

“It’s all right,” the king whispered. “Go.  _ Go! _ ” And it was with great reluctance that she did. “Are you to be my guard?” Tommen asked of the  pirate , who closed the door.

“Of sorts,” he replied cryptically. “Your mother sent me.”

Something wasn’t right. Tommen could feel it in every breath the man took. He’d been reared on stories of pirates – even fantasied of their great travels upon the waves. Seeing one was quiet different. Rather like meeting a knight from the field of slaughter stinking of horse shit and piss. The songs were written later by men that had never seen war.

“What is that?” Tommen asked, as Euron took a red sash from his belt and slipped it over his own head. It clashed with his shells and jewels.

“Safety.” He replied. “I’d not stand so close to the window if I were you, Your Grace. There are dragons coming.”

For a brief moment Tommen eyed the window with lustful fancy. If he were a dragon he’d clamber upon the sill and fall into the wind. As things stood he moved over to his desk and sat among the deluge of his wife’s rummagings.

“I heard them call,” Tommen breathed.

“You’ll feel them burn,” Euron assured the young king.

“Is that what you saw, in Dorne?”

“That and more,” he replied. The king was very unlike his mother in manner. There was a calmness to him as he picked at the remains of the desk. “I wonder that you are still in the Capital...”

“Well that is simple,” Tommen replied. “I am the King. Kings that run die as surely as those that sit on their thrones.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“My Grandfather.”

Euron laughed at that. “Tywin was a right cunt.”

* ~*~*

“Where is that creature?” Cersei hissed to herself, as she stalked through the lower levels of the castle. Soldiers rushed every where in a constant clink of metal while she’d all but bankrupted the realm to pay the pirates to join their ranks. They were wearing red sashes to distinguish themselves form the common rabble, having no uniforms suitable for war. A tactic that had proved useful pillaging the  _ Sunspear _ , or so Euron had bragged, before laughing in the face of her despair and declaring that he’d stay for the fun of it. Anyone who accused her of madness had never met an Ironborn.

Qyburn was usually locked in his dungeon, crouched over some corpse.  He picked at the seams of death like a doctor sewed life into the flesh. Behind her, the Mountain followed, silently as always. Cersei often found herself talking to the knight despite those dead eyes looking back at her through the slits in his armour.

Cersei reached Qyburn’s door and nodded at the Mountain to open it for her. He did, colliding his shoulder with the surface. The wood fell off its hinges and smacked into the stone. Nothing.

“Son of a bitch...” She hissed, kicking a hinge across the floor in fury. It bounced off across the stone and through the bars of a drain.

*~*~*

“Inside – quickly now!” Olenna reached out her arms to her granddaughter, who was scowling all the way into the depths of the castle  that lay  within the  _ Red Keep _ .

“What are  _ they _ doing here?” She asked, seeing their guard as a n odd mixture of Tyrell and pirate.

“You’ll be glad of them in a minute,” Olenna assured her, sliding a red sash over her granddaughter’s head.

###  **CASTLE BLACK – THE NORTH**

“When them witches turn mad, the end is near...” Tormund kept to the corner of the room. The Red Witch was at the other side, hissing at the flames which curled out of the fireplace. The strange man from the West had tried to sit with her and offer comfort for a while but the flame-haired creature wanted nothing but the fire and so she was left there.

Dorin’s strength and mind had returned to him after a few nights of warmth. A huge man compared to the Southerns who made most of the numbers in the watch, he struggled to fold himself into one of the chairs. Commander Thorne, Dacey and the Wildling King circled him, each stoic as the ice crept in under the doors. Their breath rose in clouds between them, puffing like a cluster of dragons.

“The Wildfire is being taken up to the top of the Wall and distributed along both flanks.” Thorne continued their conversation. “More arrives every day from Oldtown. The maesters are buggers about the price but the Lady Stark has coin enough.”

“How far along has it been spread?” asked Dacey.

“We’ve nearly made it to the Nightfort on the West,” Thorne replied, “but only so far as Oakenshield to East. The Wall’s in poor nick that way. We are finding serious cracks the further East we go – particularly where the castles are fallen into disrepair. Courtesy of the Long Summer. It’ll take years ter get them functional an’ that’s if we’re better manned, which we’re not. Most of the fuckers we get these days need feedin’ up an’ trainin’.”

“Any fool can roll barrels of Wildfire. Send the least useful up along with the ice masons.” Dacey advised, before sharing a worried look with Tormund. There were no luxuries of time. Men were going to die and they had to decide where best for them to draw their last breaths.

“We need to send more of it to Westwatch by the Bridge – ship it there direct if we have to.” Dorin interjected. “It’ll be the first place to fall. That an’ Eastwatch. Anywhere the Wall tapers off is weak as tits. I’ll go with the convoy, back ter the West. Meet the boat there an’ show ‘em where to lay it. I’ll set the whole damn place into the waves if I have ter. You’ll see the green flames outshine the fucking sun.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Thorne nodded, “but without men you’ll not get far. Wait a day. You can take some of the fresh ones with you once they’ve said their vows and picked a sword.”

“An’ we’ll go East.” Dacey nudged Tormund, who had not been consulted. HIs bushy brows took on an unusual curve.

“I ain’ goin’ back ter tha’ cunt of a place,” Tormund objected. “Last time I were near tha’ neck o’ water was-”

“I wasn’t going to ask you,” Thorne raised his hand.

“I’ll go on my own then,” said Dacey, “there should be a few stragglers arrived by now scared shitless of the snow. What are you going to do about _her_?”

All four of them turned to the Red Witch, rocking back and forth in her chair, staring into the flames.

“She saw something in the snow beside Castle Black,” Dorin dropped his voice to a hush. “Whatever she’s looking for, I think it’s still ‘ere, inside the castle or buried beneath it.”

The edge of Thorne’s lip curled up in a snarl. That made the woman _his_ problem and he was shit out of patience for more problems. “Fuck.” He growled, almost a bear himself. “Tormund?” He waited for a grunt. “See if yer can teach a bit of bloody fire inter’ these frightened children while ‘yer here. They look like a bunch of scraps for tinder.”

“I’d ‘ave cut those cunts to pieces not so long ago.”

Tormund felt dreadfully sad for them, hours later, as he stood in the frozen mud with a wooden sword in his hand and a semi-circle of shivering half-men. They were draped in ill-fitted armour, metal scratching together whenever they moved. He pointed to one and waved him forward.

_Her_ forward. There were women among the men. It was all the same to him. Wildlings didn’t see a difference in their blood. Their swords clashed twice then they were in the mud. He motioned to the next one and so it went, each ending up on their arse.  The last one to step forward was a short lad with shoulders nearly as broad as his height. He’d gone and carved a crude bear onto the old plank of wood he’d picked up as a shield. Tormund laughed. “Fancy yourself a bear?”

“Fook you,” the boy growled. “I’m a Bear. I’ll cut your Wilding hide an’ hang it on my wall.”

“What are you boy, ten?”

The boy raised his sword in reply.

“All right Bear,” Tormund wiped the mud off his wooden sword and pointed it at him. “If you can get wood on me, I’ll teach yer somethin’ worth learning.”

*~*~*

The fastest way to travel East was along the stretch of ice towering above the land. In the days of old the _Wall’s_ top was lined with torches forming a suspended curtain of fire or as the local hunters called it, the Northern dusk. There was no such joy for Dacey. The _Wall_ was as pitch as the evening sky above and treacherous underfoot. Either side the low borders of ice varied from a very reassuring four and a half feet to absolutely nothing where they’d melted away or snapped off in battle. The Long Summer had taken its toll, slackening the once sharp surfaces into bulbous mounds as if they were grown in the sea. They’d all refrozen now and threatened her life with every step.

A party of forty men joined her – though a few of them were women with their hair cut short. More and more of them were joining _The Watch._ Widowed, impoverished ruined or worse, none of them were turned away.

In theory there was width for twelve mounted knights to ride abreast but it was an even structure, as fickle as the weather. There were many places where it was twice – even three times this width and others, like the stretch approaching, where half that number struggled on foot made ever more treacherous with the complete erosion of the boundary walls.

“Single file!” Dacey growled at her tail. There wasn’t much of surface. Up ahead, a scattering of Night’s Watch fussing around a collection of wood and rope which they hammered into the ice. A rough bridge swung out over a fissure in the ice which had taken a section out of the top of the _Wall_. “Well fuck me...” She whispered, taking hold of a rope and leaning to the side of the bridge. The injury to the ice went deep until it blue as the ocean. It was filthy with bits of rubble, ash and oil mixed in.

“There’s more like it further on,” a man said, keeping a careful hold on one of the rods stuck into the ice. “Place is a mess this way.”

The wooden planks were only pine and creaked underfoot as they crossed.

Dacey eyed the land either side of the _Wall_. Both flanks were draped in thick fog. It lapped against the ice like a tide, swelling and curling about fifty feet below where they were standing. With the white waves sitting at the same level, the varying height of the _Wall_ peaking above it curved up and down like a dragon’s back. An entire army could be moving underneath and they’d not see it.

“Keep up, you buggers!” She growled at them.

*~*~*

At _Castle Black,_ Dorin sat with the Red Woman. He wasn’t a man of magic but he’d pulled her screaming from the snow with his own hands. That wasn’t something a simple lumberjack forgot. His world was touched by queens, dragon eggs, witches and the violent thrash of the undead. He couldn’t get the face of the maester out of his head. The terror in his eyes as the dead tore at his flesh. Then the flash of green flame… It had turned itself into a nightmare.

“I’ve seen ‘em too,” he said, shoving a poker roughly between the coals. The fire growled at the intrusion, kicking up a flame which licked around the iron bar. “Whatever it was that you saw in the ice.”

“It was not what I saw – it was what I _felt_.” Melisandre whispered. “I was drowning in ice and death. I could hear them singing to each other.”

“The dragons?” Dorin asked.

Melisandre shook her head. “No… The men made of ice. They sing, like birds or sheets of ice snapping away. For a moment they were here...” She tapped the side of her head. “Two sides of the same song.”

“Why’d yer come ‘ere?” Dorin shifted closer. “I heard o’ your magic. Things like you belong in the South or o’er the Narrow Sea not rotting at the edge of the world. Our gods are the old gods.”

Melisandre turned from the fire to look upon her companion. He was an old man made strong by the years. “You are not a man of any god.” Dorin withdrew slightly at her words. “Why?”

“Fuck the gods...” He whispered. “Nasty shits.”

“I will travel West with you, Dorin of Bear Island.”

He shook his head. “I don’ a think so. No. I mean tha’ lass. I ain’ travellin’ with a sorceress.”

###  **OLD GATE – KING’S LANDING**

“There she is. Bugger of a thing. Great big old bird with two broken wings and an overbite.” Davos pulled his horse up as they cleared the rise. Hills rolled out around them, wild and abandoned with purple flowers thick at their horse’s feet and long, sharp grass nearly to their shoulders. Ahead, the pale corpse of _King’s Landing_ sat against the morning sky with a filthy pillar of smoke dawdling from the _Dragon Pit_.

“Those are soldiers on the wall – running, see?” Jon stopped beside Davos.

Jaqen was the last to arrive. His grey horse with long, speckled legs, kicked at the ground and tugged against the reins. It didn’t like the scent of something in the air. “Over there.” He pointed to the South. “In the sky.”

“Birds?” Asked Davos.

“Not birds.” Jaqen whispered.

“Dragons...” Jon breathed. “We’re too late.”

*~*~*

Darkstar had the honour of leading the ground army on behalf of _Dorne_ and the queen. He strode along the soft earth on his horse. The others hung back a few dozen feet, four abreast so that they could pass through the _Mud Gate_.

He stopped at the far side of the bridge and raised a red flag into the air. There was movement behind the arrow slits. He waited. Nerves as still as the air which had driven to a halt. Everything paused. High above, the Queen and all her dragons circled, watching the Lannister soldiers race through the city. The Tyrell army held the _Mud Gate_. They undid the enormous steel planks – all the locks and opened the last threshold into the city.

The drawbridge slammed onto the mud in front of Darkstar. His horse stamped at the noise then panic broke out.

*~*~*

Jorah laid down on _Viserion_ , his body pressing against the dragon’s warm scales. They shifted in flight as his enormous wings beat up and down occasionally, maintaining his casual circle over the city. He was too high for the archers. Their arrows sank in sad curves beneath, hitting the water or the fields beyond the castle wall but never the dragons.

He watched a dance beneath – choreographed by a spider to trap a den of lions. The Lannisters scrambled along the top of the castle and found themselves hemmed in by the inferior but overwhelming numbers of Tyrell soldiers. Confused, they lifted their swords. Beneath, Euron’s pirates terrified the city, ushering them back into the safety of their homes as they marauded from one side to the next, beholden to no one. They raced towards Daenerys’ army. They would met as two waves at the entrance to the _Red Keep_.

*~*~*

“What is going on?” Asked Jon.

“Nothing that we are party to,” Ser Davos replied. “Those there are heads mounted to the city walls,” he added, pointing to the sparrows left to rot on spikes. “We best wait this out.”

Jon’s horse startled as the largest of the dragons, a black monster, passed overhead casting a shadow over the field where they stood. He tilted his head up in time to see the underbelly of scales quiver together. He heard the air whistle across them and the snarl of its breath. Old words whispered from his lips. Ned Stark’s prayers that he’d heard uttered over and over beneath the Weirwood outside _Winterfell’s_ walls.

“Your gods will do you no good now, my King.” Jaqen warned. “The gods all have the same ears and the same will that cares for nothing but itself.”

“Why doesn’t she raze the city?” Jon asked, ignoring the assassin. “It would be over at once if she set one of her monsters on it.”

“A burning Capital is no good to any ruler,” Davos whispered. “Power on the battlefield amounts to nothing if you can’t take King’s Landing alive.”

Jon walked his horse forward. His eyes followed the three dragons, circling above. He watched them with the same detachment as the army of dead faces from the bow of his boat, fading into the shoreline.

*~*~*

Lannister bodies tumbled from the wall, hitting the ceramic roofs. Tiles smashed into a terracotta hail that crunched under hoof of Darkstar’s army. They were riding calmly through the centre of the city with barely a sword raised in opposition. Those that tried were quickly knocked across the face and left to dream in the gutter.

_Rhaegal_ , the only dragon without a rider, took up perch on one of those walls and stretched his magnificent wings.

“There’s your dragon, boy,” Euron pointed to the creature.

Tommen gripped the cold stone of the window sill. “ Fire and blood. Those are their words,” he whispered. “Where is the fire and the crimson river?” He set his sight further out to the harbour where his fleet floundered. A few ships had split in half and were in the process of sinking. “She is your master, is she not?”

E uron dipped his head in acknowledgement.

“I am glad of it. My queen’s blood is not meant for your sword,” Tommen explained. “Her grandmother has done some kind of deal for her life, I trust?”

“Come away from the window, Your Grace.”

“How does this work? The Ironborn, the Tyrells, the Targaryens and the Dornish? All in league against the Crown.”

“Power is a game,” Euron advised. “The board was stacked against you before you were born. Now – come away from the window.”

Tommen did not. “What if I told you I had no interest in games?”

“I’d tell you that the game doesn’t care if you want to play or not. It plays itself.”

Tommen closed his eyes and lingered at the window. “There are no screams...” He whispered. “No sounds of war. A bloodless coo...” Then he smiled.

Euron found himself unnerved by the young Lannister. There was no doubt that he’d escaped the madness of his brother and cruelty of his mother but there was something else… An echo of his grandfather.

“If you could have anything in this moment, what would you wish?” Euron asked.

“An open field,” Tommen breathed. “Six feet of dirt and a sky without stars.”

Tommen felt something slid around his neck. He opened his eyes to find a red sash draped over him.

* ~*~*

Cersei stood on the roof of the  _Red Keep_ and watched as ships sank in the harbour, sandwiched between pirates and a Targaryen fleet. Dragons swooped overhead. Her eyes followed the black one. Its morbid body passed again and again, dipping lower each time. It goaded her with its silver and crimson queen, perched atop. Without the beasts the Targaryen had nothing. She was a child. An idiot with an army proving her father right. Only the stupid ruled.

If the horselord whore wanted the Capital she could have it –  as  a pile of cinders.

* ~*~*

“This isn’t right,” Tyrion muttered, gripping the railing of the ship so hard that his knuckles turned pale as bone. His cheer had turned to disquiet while Varys did the reverse.

“Try and enjoy the brilliance of my execution,” Varys turned his back on the water and trio of armies floating on it. “Be honest, have you ever seen such a graceful victory? They will sing songs about this day until the stars die and the shadows take over the land. The Spider’s Tale. Yes? No…? Tyrion. Honestly. Stop being so miserable.”

“As you said earlier, Cersei will find a way to shit on your glorious epitaph,” Tyrion replied coldly.

Varys allowed the salt air  to fill his lungs. He ignored the tug of  souls beneath the waves. Those dark things had no sway over him today. “There is no path for  remaining for  your sister to win.”

“I agree but that does not mean she will lose gracefully.” He shook his head. “You were right in your apprehension.”

*~*~*

Daenerys and Jorah took their dragons for a lap of  _Blackwater Bay_ , skirting low enough to dip their wings into the water  where curved horns sliced through the salt. They banked together, lifted and faced the fleet of black sails. The pirate ships barricaded the Lannisters in. A few sad trails of smoke adorned the vessels that gave a fight. Water tugged at their broken bodies, sinking them where they’d lay among their dead Baratheon cousins. An iron mast slapped into the water. Ropes and sails floated off. Bodies swam until they were dragged under by circling sharks.

“Khaleesi...” Jorah whispered, even though his queen could only hear the rush of air from her dragon. It was only in this moment that Jorah realised he’d lived this moment before – in a vision of shadows and half-truths.

The ground beneath the city shifted. A crack, like thunder followed. It terrified the dragons, causing them to rear mid-flight. Then still waters shivered and a roar of green raged over everything.


	86. Landing of Kings

 

 

###  **CASTLE BLACK – THE WALL**

“That She-bear,” the red witch said, as Thorne slammed the door to his office against the freezing wind, “does not trust your ability to hold the Watch together.”

Thorne snorted in response, picking out a bottle of sweet wine tucked between the scrolls and books. It was mostly empty and what remained was full of grit. He didn’t care, taking a swig before staggering over to his desk. “It might surprise you to learn, witch, that I don’t give a _fuck_ what anyone thinks of my command. Bear, wolf or damn dragon. Besides – Dacey is miles away, headed East. Gods be with her and the poor fucks that follow. I heard you were heading off yourself...”

“The fires draw me West,” Melisandre replied.

“Yeah, I also heard that Dorin wasn’t much interested in your company. He thinks witches are bad luck. Honestly, can’t blame him much for that but if you go with him I might happen on a bit of peace. About time.”

A lashing of snow and wind set the door shaking on its hinges. The windows had frozen over months ago and through them Thorne saw nothing except the underside of frost.

“You are as genuine as the vine of thorns...”

“Aye and no relation to those rose-footed Southerners. The only allegiance a Commander of the Watch has is to his men and that fucking lump of ice that gets on my nerves. So, it’s decided, you’ll go West with Dorin and take some of my men with you. As it happens, I agree with the old bastard. Them dead shits will be looking for cracks in this wall and Westwatch is a fucking ruin last I heard. Go – cast a few spells on it or whatever it is that fire priestesses do.”

His words weren’t intended as rude he was simply short by nature. The cold bittered everyone after a while. ‘Sad fucks’ Tyrion had called them, when he visited _The Watch_. Miserable fragments of humanity. That’s all the realm had left. A wall built on rotted flesh.

“Promise me one thing,” Thorne added, tossing another correspondence into the fire. It curled and turned to ash. “When that mad son of a bitch sets the world on fire, you take the fastest horse and ride back to this keep.”

“Why ever would you want me to do that?”

“I might not be the smartest man in the realm but I’m not fucking stupid. This ice demon that thinks himself a king – he’s made of ice and you’re a quick hand at fire.”

*~*~*

The nights spent curled in the corner of a sky cell passed into blissful memory compared to the road North. Petyr carried everything he owned, including the gifts from his Winter Queen, in a satchel tied to his back. The rest he wore. Layers and layers. Anything to stave off the cold that bit at his limbs. It was the same for the others that lined the _King’s Road_ in their hundreds, meandering toward the sheets of ice. They fled one war for another, drawn to the _Wall_ solely on the promise of food and a bed. How wretched the _Westerosi_ had become.

Now he was one of them. The filth. He even smelled like horse shit – or he did when he managed to find a place by the fire at night and share a meal with the farmers that hunted along the road and fished in the ice holes that dotted across the lakes in the far North. Every night the fogs came in and each morning they waited longer and longer before lifting from the land. Most of the time they were left to walk through the impenetrable grey with nothing but the road and the person in front as a guide. A sea of watery torches. Tears and the groans of those dying out of sight.

It was a rare clear afternoon that Petyr Baelish spotted the _Wall_. This was not his first time seeing the razor of ice stretched over the horizon but it _was_ the first time that a shiver ran down the bones of his spine at the thought of touching it again. The reality of holding his sword to the demons on the other side he could make peace with, in his mind at least, but the shame of facing the men that manned _Castle Black_?

He turned away from the path and threw up his lunch of sparrow. Someone patted him on the back – whispered a word of encouragement and set him on the road again.

_Castle Black_ was a venomous thing. Whomever built its ugly walls had a bone to pick with the old gods. He could see the resentment in every stone. If he’d expected any special treatment befitting his previous status it was dashed immediately. Those headed for  _The Watch_ were broken away from the farmers and told to stand in the mud. Recruits were no longer the scum of the  _Seven Kingdoms_ . The people that stood with him were terrified and poor, shivering with the cold. They’d gladly face hell’s warriors for a bed by the fire. Personally, Petyr would rather make a pact with the gods than endure this fucking hell. He only did it because his Winter Queen had asked it of him. He was a fool for her.  _A dead fool_ , he thought sadly. An unremarkable story – a footnote in a future book.  He wondered how many idiots like him had fallen on their swords for a royal smile on swollen lips.

“Of all the sad fuckers this side of the continent and I get you...”

“Lord Commander Thorne...” Littlefinger dipped his head in a bow. It was all he could manage with frozen limbs and a bad leg.

“Never thought I’d see the bloody day. Things must have really gone to shit in the South if folk like you are washing up.”

“You could say that,” Littlefinger replied. “Politics has become a risky business. Lady Sansa of Winterfell thought my skills might serve of greater use in your company, My Lord.”

“Not if you call me, ‘My Lord’ again. You can call me Thorne, Commander or cunt. Up ter you. _Aye Tormund!_ ” Thorne waved the enormous Wildling King over. “New batch of chicks for you to sort.”

“An’ tha’ one?” Tormund tilted his head ominously at the slight man who didn’t look like he’d live out the Winter.

“He won’t be much good with a sword but see what you can do. Then send him my way after yer done and the vows are said. I want him on the side of the living, yer hear?”

*~*~*

H e was  _terrible_ but a long way from the worst. A ‘three-stroker’ they called him, same as all the others who’d last three swipes of the sword against one of the dead soldiers. Still, Petyr decided to approach the situation as he’d done with all others in his life and learned what he could from the experience. He was convinced that politics were the same wherever you went and in this part of the world the object of most worth was survival. Well, so be it. He would learn how to survive.

They were still leading parties of men through the gates to take the oath in front of the Weirwood. Petyr had no need of that. His words were said in  _Winterfell_ so he fastened his black cloak and watched the others trail through the tunnel  in a sad commune.

“Commander Thorne will see you now,” the Wildling king said, laying his hand unwisely on Littlefinger’s shoulder. “This was not the castle I had in mind when we made conversation last time,” Tormund added.

“But a castle it is,” Petyr replied. “Is she not a beauty?”

“Ugliest bastard of a thing I ever seen,” Tormund reply, rising a laugh out of the small man. “You’re gonna die up ‘ere quicker than the firewood if yer don’ learn how ter use that fine sword of yours.” He added, far more quietly this time.

“What difference is it to you if I die? I ask out of pure curiosity, you see. We are not well acquainted beyond a bit of stitching.”

“I might not wear one of ‘em fancy crowns like them Southerners,” Tormund replied thoughtfully, “but I know a thing or two about rulin’. Mance taught us that the only thing that matters – _the only thing_ – is the continued beat of your heart. While ever you’ve got that, you’re one of us. You’re one of us, Smallfinger.”  He repeated firmly, with another smack to his back.

Littlefinger flinched at the butchering of his name. “I’m not one of  _anything_ .”

“That will change. Right now the war that you were sent here for is someone else’s nightmare. I promise, the moment you see one of them ugly cunts coming at yer with flesh falling off the bone you’ll know the truth. Here we are. Commander’s office. When yer done with grisly cunt we might take a walk.”

* ~*~*

He was still made to sleep with the others. They were stacked, beds atop beds suspended on pine frames, four high until they reached the roof. Part of him was glad of the cluster of bodies in the small room. Their collective heat was almost enough to melt the veneer of frost from the stone walls.

Petyr rolled onto his side, tucked his knees to his chest and held the blankets in place. He shivered beneath them, trying to find warmth that simply refused to come.  The greatest threat to the army at  _The Wall_ was freezing to death before war. It was  _alright_ for Northerners raised on frozen landscapes but most of the people here now were unable to survive.

He closed his eyes anyway. Petyr knew exactly what he’d see. She haunted him – from one world into the next. Sansa and her pale blue eyes. Snow dusted in fiery ribbons of hair. A queen and a wolf.  He was  _done_ dreaming of the dead. From now on he’d think only of her.

I n the morning he waited outside the kitchens in the mud. It was the only place warm enough in Castle Black for the ice to melt and reveal the stinking ground. He tore at a scrap of bread, picking at it like a bird while he waited. Snow flurried down in waves, dusting the black rock like a capped mountain peak. It was nothing to the rise of white towering above. He could hear the chains of the lift screech as the lift went up and down. Somewhere, beyond the square, men brawled in practice with the slam of wooden shields to wooden swords.

“Yer carry your sword wherever yer go,” Tormund observed, lumbering across the mud. He was draped in skins and fur, strapped together with thick lengths of metal. That alone made him impervious to most stray blades. It’d take a mountain of a man to hack through to the flesh. “Good start. Never know when things will go ter shit ‘round this fuckin’ place.”

This was their walk, Littlefinger assumed, as he followed without request.

“I have already said my vows,” Littlefinger spoke up, when it became clear that they were descending into the heart of the castle and, naturally he imagined, toward the tunnel that led through the ice.

“We’re not goin’ through the gate, Smallbird.”

He blinked away another terrible version of his name and followed in silence as Tormund took a pair of flaming torches from the wall and handed one to him. It was crude compared to the ones from the  _Red Keep_ , with its wild flames licking down at his hands.

“Mmm… Yer feel it too...” The Wildling King observed, as his company fell quiet. Their breath came as whispers of fog as the stone walls gave way to ice and they found themselves in the narrow passage of ice. “Felt it myself, first time I came down ‘ere with the bear woman. Watch your step. There are a thousand dead hands reaching from beneath.”

Tormund lowered his torch to the ground. Littlefinger stumbled back. Beneath the milky surface were the shadows of dead men. They’d been frozen there, preserved by the cold. “ Who are they?”

“Our future...” Tormund replied.

The narrow passage opened up to a shock of daylight. The heavy fog had lifted halfway up the ice wall leaving the forest and open snow field exposed. Littlefinger turned several times, swiping his torch madly. “It’s –  _open_ .”

“There’s been cracks like that in this wall since it were built.” Tormund hissed. He waved Littlefinger on, leading him toward the forest.

Instinct snapped his limbs. He felt it creep along his veins – that irrepressible urge to turn and  _run_ back to the safety of  _The Wall_ .

“Don’ look so worried. I’ll make sure your wings aren’t snapped. If the army of the dead were out this way we’d know it by now. They’re not like your sneaking demons in the South. They don’t wait in the shadows – they run the fuck at you. You can hear them in your sleep. Them and their bones.” He paused at the edge of the forest where the limbs of the pines were so heavy with snow that they bowed onto the ground. There was a break in the tree line where a few trees had been snapped and lay, frozen, almost entirely consumed. “This is what we’re ‘ere for.”

Littlefinger stepped over the thick body of the tree – pushed away the brown limbs and all their dead needles and entered the roughly circular deluge behind it where a dozen more trees had been felled.

“They’ve been _crushed_...” He whispered, noting the splinters and pulverised wood. Littlefinger dropped his torch in fright when he noticed the open, half-corpse of a man along the edge. All it’s bones curved out of pink, frozen flesh while its entrails lay, half chewed and dragged apart by wolves.

Tormund picked up the torch and handed it back to Littlefinger. “It’s a nest...”

“A nest of _what_?”

“Fucking dragon.”

###  **KING’S LANDING – WESTEROS**

The explosion rose from the depths of the city, roared through the sewers, drains and tunnels that hollowed out the underside of the ancient settlement and forced its way out of _Visenya’s Hill_. The market place, with its elaborate homes and temporary encampment of Tyrell soldiers was obliterated by the first flush of green flame. Claws of fire stretched over the _Muddy Way_ , some of them reaching right to the _King’s Gate_ where the remaining Lannister forces knelt in sudden terror.

It was only the first hold of barrels stockpiled by the Mad King. The second, larger room of poorly kept Wildfire sat directly beneath _The Great Sept of Baelor_. Connected by a low, arched passage of stone, the flames spiralled in a nightmare toward it with such a force of heat that the barrels caught alight _before_ the fire front reached them.

This time the escaping detonation levelled a quarter of the city, centred on _The Great Sept of Baelor_ that found itself torn out of existence in an instant. Within the beat of a dragon’s wing, the immense building, with all its prayers and horrors, evaporated into a cloud of ash that rained down over the city. Cinders burned in the air while the ground shook underfoot.

_Rhaegal_ , perched on the wall at the  _Fishmarket_ , was blown off the stone and landed on the fragile slips of wood and cloth that made up the market. Most of it was destroyed by his panicked flailing. He cried out at the hideous thunder and cowered away from the unnatural fire that melted the buildings which fronted onto the  _Muddy Way_ and boiled those people that hid inside.

The trio of fleets in the harbour were pushed into a list by the invisible rush of air. They bowed together, captor and captive sliding over the decks while their masts tangled. The chaos struck a hundred tussles and, ship by ship, a fresh war sparked into life.

_Drogon_ reared up against the surge of fire, staggering in flight. He rolled away to the left, plummeting through the sky with Daenerys barely keeping hold as her body hovered free, floating above the dragon’s back until the beast pulled up and she smashed into the surface with a groan that Jorah felt echoed in his chest.

_Viserion_ took a wider path, heading to the right instead,  where he took a lap in front of the cliffs above which the  _Red Keep_ loomed. The dragon used the protection of the fort to shield himself from the subsequent explosions that popped up through weak points in the city, flaring like the innards of a volcano – a mirror of the final days of  _Valyria_ .

Jorah’s dragon landed on the beach exposed by the low tide and snapped at the few Lannister guards that approached. They wisely dropped their spears and  fled toward the  _Iron Gate_ .

“Sh! Sh...” Jorah hissed at the great beast, attempting to settle the thrashing dragon. Thick, black smoke surged into the sky and the screams, oddly absent from the beginning of the battle, replaced the silence.

* ~*~*

“Get _down!_ ” Tyrion snatched Varys by the neck of his robes and smashed him onto the deck. The pair of them hit the wood as ship lifted out of the water. Its limp sails swelled and tugged the vessel sharply to the side. Varys and Tyrion were swung over the deck until they slammed into the railing where the salt water lapped hungrily a them through the rail.

Accompanied by an almighty roar, every  man and beast screamed.  Even the stoic  _Unsullied_ rattled screeches out of their lungs as the ship righted itself.

The heat of the explosion was felt as far as the bay as if some great god were waking.

“Get up – right now. Varys!” Tyrion’s hands were back in the fabric of Varys’ clothes, hauling him away from the flooded deck.

Varys touched his head where an old wound had opened and dripped blood over his brow. Slightly shaken, it took him a moment to catch up to the roar of pandemonium that surrounded them. “Where are we going?”

Tyrion answered that by shoving a sword into his hand. “Off this fucking ship. This all just went to hell.”

*~*~*

Euron wrapped his arms around the boy King and pulled him away from the window. The foundations of the castle shook violently. Stone dislodged itself from the architraves and shattered on the floor. Dust and smoke followed, blanketing the city with the stench of vaporised flesh.

Without explanation, the pirate dragged Tommen out of the room and  swiftly  down the  crumbling corridors. There were no soldiers. They’d amassed in the court of the  _Red Keep_ , manning the entrance to  _Aegon’s High Hill_ in case the rebellious armies tried to breech the keep. The Tyrells were known as traitors to the Crown. Most had already fled into the greater city, which they held but some unfortunate souls left behind were now in pieces, painting the granite floors.  A mass of terrified civilians raced towards the Keep and pounded their bare hands against the stone, begging for the safety of the palace walls.

“Down here!” Euron ripped off the iron grate in the floor and tossed the boy down the hole. He followed, landing in knee-deep water.

“I thought the object was to kill me?” Tommen asked, as they waded through the sewers. Rats screamed around them, swimming toward the ocean. Other charred corpses floated with the current.

“You _are_ dead,” Euron replied firmly. “As dead as they fucking come.”

* ~*~*

D aenerys’ hands bled  through her ripped gloves and onto  _Drogon’s_ scales. His flight levelled out as he distanced himself from the burning city  where the highest towers were busy collapsing in on themselves . He’d clawed his way higher, circling around and around until the ships reduced to broken dots and she could see the scale of destruction that wracked  _King’s Landing_ .

One quarter of it was covered by smoke, beneath which the opening gasps of green had shifted to regular orange flame. The wildfire had burned away leaving the fire gods to wrestle against the deformed stone and mud. It was hot enough to fire the  _Muddy Way_ into ceramic – captured in the moment of its death.

She could see Jorah and his dragon standing on the sand and  _Rhaegal_ stalking out into the water, away from the destroyed  _Fishmarket_ . Of all the dragons, he’d been closest to the carnage. Without a rider, there  w as nothing to stop him ducking his head and vanishing, like a sea-serpent, beneath the waves.

His shadow tracked under the fleets in the harbour. He circled them, zooming through the water as easily as the sky.  _Drogon_ turned away and she had to lean awkwardly to keep  track  of  _Rhaegal_ .

“Where are you going?” She asked the wind. Daenerys knew that her dragons loved to swim but she’d never seen it from above. They moved like reveries, swift and ominous without breaking the surface.

*~*~*

“What the hell is going on?” Varys cried out over the noise, as _Unsullied_ crawled across the rails of their ship, and navigated a network of wooden planks laid between the vessels. Open warfare had broken out where the trapped Lannister fleet tried to push their way into the poorly manned pirate ships. Their lack of discipline led to a ruthless yet penetrable battlefront where teams of Lannister men managed to make it all the way to the Queen’s ships.

“We’re going to have to hold our ground the hard way, that’s what,” Tyrion replied, gripping the handle of his sword. “Plots are elegant, this shit is messy.”

The imp’s size was an advantage. He was too low to fall prey to any wildly slashing swords  un like Varys, who had to bend double as they wove through the fighting. They were headed to the back of the ship, behind the line of  _Unsullied_ who were still in perfect formation with their shields in line and spears pointed at the sky.  There were more than a couple of gold plated chests between there and here and all eyes were searching for the greatest traitor of the realm.  _Him._

“Whatever you do, Varys, keep heading toward those men.” Tyrion insisted. “Moving. That’s the secret. Keep the feet going.”

A moment later the first of the Lannister soldiers broke free of their squabble and set their aim on Tyrion. He swore beneath his breath and pushed Varys to the side, momentarily losing sight of the spider.

“Come on, then...” Tyrion hissed at the swordsman. It was a teenager – slim in his armour and full of misplaced adrenaline. Tyrion remained steady, watching the swagger of death with a keen eye. One. Two. Three. The steps counted down until the other man was nearly within reach. To their left, a surly pirate opened the stomach of another boy, spilling gizzards across the deck with a sickening noise. For the briefest moment, the Lannister soldier looked to the horror. Tyrion struck – his short sword cutting right behind the man’s knees. He crumpled to the deck in shock. Tyrion dragged his sword out of the wound and brought it down even harder, embedding it into the skull. The boy’s eyes rolled up, taking in the view of Tyrion’s blade before those same eyes fell silent.

Varys  was caught in the cross-splash of Tyrion’s blade. A  curtain of blood hit him in the face as the young Lannister soldier  fell to the deck  joined by another darker stain of blood from a pirate kill that was tossed over board into the water. It was hideous. War. A bloodbath of chaos with no obvious direction.  Varys marvelled.  There were no fucking ladders to climb as a certain bird liked to brag. There was just  _this._ Terror.

H e took a step forward toward Tyrion  but his foot missed the deck as the entire front of the ir ship lifted out of the water. Everyone on the deck tumbled carelessly into the water, plopping beneath the surface where they were tossed about by the waves.

The winged serpent launched itself out from the depths of  _Blackwater Bay_ , sending ships flying off into the waves.  _Rhaegal_ spread his glistening wings and beat them hard and fast, clawing his way into the sky  with a rush of fire that erupted out of his mouth.

Varys ended up with a throat full of sea water as he was dragged beneath the surface, face to the heavens. The sunlight was instantly corrupted by the thrash of waves. His world grew darker as he sank into the depths of  _Blackwater Bay_ .

The water was surprisingly clear. Such a strange thought to have but Varys had it none the less. He could not shake his marvel at the bones of old wrecks poking out from the sandy bottom or the enormous fingers of ancient black rock that lay on the white sand like a rotten corpse.  There were other voices down there. Whispers of sailors, mermen and fish that flicked past him like flashes in the storm. No. Deeper. There was another voice calling to him. A friend that rotted  through the eternal years. He’d be there, long after Varys succumbed to the will of the gods that he hated, mocking forever.  Deeper.  _Yes_ . He allowed the waters to drag him down.

*~*~*

Euron pushed the boy forwards. Tommen fell face first into the sewer. On his hands and knees he crawled forward along with the squealing rats. There was a rush of foam where other raging channels emptied into the main tunnel.  Euron grabbed the boy again, pulling him up and suspending him almost entirely from the scruff of his kingly clothes.

There was no time. Euron knew shit when he heard it and the city above had descended into a mad rage. One thing he knew for certain was that Dany would rise out of the ashes with her fire breathing monsters and then this king would be thrown into their jaws.

“Down there!” Euron hissed, pointing to an old wooden ladder nailed into the side of the tunnel. It led down fifteen feet into the next, wider passage which funnelled into the quiet part of the bay. The fresh air breathed on them, offering a mouthful of something other than floating pieces of corpse.

Tommen reached for the handle of the ladder. The water was freezing and his already pale skin had taken on a sickly grey, inching closer to death. “ What’s down there?” He asked the pirate.

“A real shit of a man with a half-arsed row boat,” Euron replied. “You tell him Daario Naharis sent you and he’ll shit his fucking pants, you understand?”

Tommen nodded. He understood. “And-”

“And _what_?” There wasn’t time for conversation.

“And who am _I_?”

“You’re the fucking king, last time I checked.”

The young king turned and swung his legs through the torrent of water and  began his way down the ladder. A second later half the side tore away from the wall. It swung out wildly but he clung on like one of those damn rodents making its way along the brickwork.

At the bottom the water was even deeper, up to his chest and there was no way for him to fight against it. He dropped his hands, letting them both lap at the surface as he gave himself into whatever lay at the end. The mouth of the tunnel was a flaming archway of light, too bright for his tiny pupils to make out anything but an overwhelming glare.

Slowly, shapes took form. Tommen heard the eerie cry of dragons as they raced through the sky. Ships cracked and died in the harbour.  _His_ people fled along the low tide in the mud and the course sand, with arms full of whatever they’d managed to take from their homes.

Then he came across the row boat tethered under the shadow of the tunnel but off to the side where the waters were calmer. A lantern hung on a curved rod casting a sad halo of light onto the water. Tommen stumbled through the water toward it, startling the narrow old man sitting inside.

“Get away, child!” He used the flat side of oar to whack the boy on the shoulder.

“Stop! _Stop!_ ” Tommen shouted, and then repeated the words Euron had told him.

The old man lowered the oar and narrowed his eyes. “That so…?”

“Wait – I _know_ you,” said Tommen, wading closer. “The banker. Tycho. That’s you, isn’t it?”

Tycho took a second look at the child in the water. Blonde hair, made filthy by the sewer. His silk robes sodden and jewels left behind. Lannister eyes though. Sharp and alert. Piercing at him. Then it struck him. Tycho didn’t know  _what_ to do. His life was a system of carefully thought out steps and gambles but he didn’t know enough about the war above to make that gamble. So he did what everybody else did when they were afraid. What he was told.

Tommen clasped onto the offered hand and clambered aboard the narrow boat. “Who are you waiting for?” Tommen asked. “If it is Euron I do not believe that he will be coming back this way. We are meant to proceed direct to Dragonstone.  He said there was a ship in the harbour that would take us there. Why do you not reply?”

“The harbour is a disaster. We can’t paddle out into it and live. We wait here.”

“Something will find us eventually.”

“Maybe, Your Grace,” Tycho admitted, “but better to be found by a guard of men than a raging dragon and there are three of them flying around the sky at the moment, startled by your mother’s massacre.”

_His mother._ Tommen knew that he’d not see her again. ‘Win or die...’ Those were her words.  _Casterly Rock_ was gone. The city was about to fall. Their friends would turn tails like the flip of a merchant’s coin. There was nothing he could do about it so he sat and stared at the water.

“You would have been a good king...” Tycho added, a little while later. “Better than half those fire-breathing shits that spent every last coin in the empire. Now we are beholden to monsters.”

* ~*~*

“ _No_ Rhaegal, _no_...” Jorah watched in horror as the dragon snapped at ships on its way back toward the city. The poor thing was terrified, spooked by the explosion and nightmare of flame. Without a rider there was no voice to whisper calmly in its ear or bring it around to the shore. He looked above to the queen. Daenerys was riding it out of _Drogon_ , taking him higher away from the battle.

“Viserion…” He tapped the dragon gently on the side of its neck, talking through his thoughts more than his gravelly words. “We need to go get your brother back.”

_Viserion_ took off from the sand and, as his wings brushed the pastel pink stone beneath the  _Red Keep_ , let out a call to his kin. The dragon cooed like a bird, opening its throat. He passed over the  _River Row_ and  _Fishmonger’s Square_ , turning to face the bay at the  _Mud Gate_ and head his brother off.

It was such a  _beautiful_ sight, Jorah thought.  _Rhaegal_ soared like a piece of jade tossed into the sky.  Wind whistled across the horns on this spine and around his head.  He was frightened – jaw set back and the panels of skin at the base of his neck inflated like a shield.

“Pull up beside him,” Jorah whispered.

_Viserion_ did as he was told, curving perfectly until he fell in line with his brother. They were close enough that Jorah felt like he might reach out and touch the other dragon. A shadow passed over them both.  _Drogon_ rode above and the three of them took a turn around the water together.

“There we are.” Jorah tried to settle them all. It appeared to work. The frightened chatter between the creatures tapered off. _Drogon_ sank down to join them when they were furtherest out to see. They turned as one, Daenerys on Jorah’s left and _Rhaegal_ on the right. The city stretched in front. The _Red Keep_ , untouched by the violence, stood resolute against the water as it always had while terrible clouds of ash burned furiously in a third of _King’s Landing_.

They had a long way to go before these dragons would be disciplined enough for war. They were somewhere between an animal and a general – both needed training and experience. These poor things, they had none. Their lives were so different, it was a wonder they’d survived at all.

Jorah realised that Daenerys was staring at him, laid on her dragon’s back, clinging like a leaf tied down with silver web. Her crimson cloak rippled out behind her like a gaping wound. He nodded at her, all he could manage without letting go of  _Viserion_ . They were riding bareback, at the mercy of the interlocked scales and protrusions of bone that hooked in lines of razor horns.

They sailed toward the burning city as a trio. A glorious rush of gold, green and black wings. _Rhaegal_ bucked at the wind, dipped his head and flapped his wings, pulling ahead. _Drogon_ and _Viserion_ gave chase. Together, they all dived through the smoke billowing out of the innards of what was  once _The Great Sept of Baelor_. Jorah held his breath as the smoke hit his face. It stung in his eyes, leaving tears behind as the dragons broke out the other side. The fires had spread through the poor market areas and was creeping from rooftop to rooftop, tearing the canvas awnings apart. Those who weren’t wielding weapons in the street were throwing buckets of water over the flames, trying to save what little of their homes remained.  Others died at their feet.

J orah could  _see_ the green dragon’s throat paling with the surge of flame welling up.  _Rhaegal_ was building a plume of fire, salivating so heavily at the thought of what he was about to unleash that the sticky substance dripped onto the screaming people below.

“Rhaegal – don’t – please-” Jorah heard Daenerys scream something similar, reaching an arm out futilely toward her wayward child.

_Rhaegal_ burned it  _all_ . From  _Lion Gate_ to  _Cobbler’s Square._ A flaming scar cast down onto the already ruined half of the city. The dragon vanished along with his flames, stirring them up with the mad flap of his leathery wings. It was a storm of fire and Jorah and Daenerys had no choice but to pull away and fly their dragons around the Keep.

*~*~*

Cersei stood on the roof of the  _Red Keep_ and watched with a sickening delight as  _King’s Landing_ burned. It was not the first time she’d seen it set to cinder. Terror and violence suited the bleeding walls and the black water that lapped at its feet. It had always been a place of horror, all she was doing was returning it to its roots. That and she took a special kind of joy at the suffering of others. It was as though their pain lessoned hers – lancing the wounds in her soul that had been left to fester for decades.

Now one of those monsters was joining in and she could not stop a nasty cackle in her throat. The other two dragons buzzed the tower where she stood, close enough for her to see that they were both ridden. One was the queen and the other – the other she had no fucking idea. Probably that Mormont Knight Qyburn’s birds whispered about.

* ~*~*

“Down. _Down!_ ” Loras Tyrell raised his shield to the flame, covering himself at the last moment. The fire hit the building in front, vanishing into the stone’s depths. He could hear it roasting the mud building into glass, incinerating the contents. The fire cut through the streets like a knife and _everyone_ dropped to the ground, cowering as it passed overhead.

Smoking shield in hand, Loras returned to his feet and watched the dragon curve around the city, whipping up the ash with its tail. He’d heard the stories of the dragon queen and her creatures but  _to see them_ , to understand what it meant to enter the field with one of those things breathing fire down your back – it was like going to war with the gods themselves.

The thinning Lannister army appeared to be coming to the same conclusion. As Loras pushed forward with a mix of unruly pirates and Dornish men, more and more Gold Cloaks and Lion Chests knelt with their swords tossed aside. They did as the queen commanded and rounded them up into slave lines, chaining them together. It was not enslavement. They’d soon be given their choice, once was the battle was over.

Not everyone had given up. A nasty cluster of soldiers that Loras knew personally had backed themselves into a bottleneck of narrow streets, forcing Loras to send men down one at a time. There was barely enough space to wield a sword let alone a spear so the pirates went first with their curved knives and toothless snarls.  Their savagery had a lot in common with the dragons, free of fear.

“No, you mustn’t Ser...” One of his knights tried to stop Loras from entering the tunnel when there was only one determined Lannister man left.

“Out of my way,” Loras insisted, pushing by his men. He undid his belt and the sword that sat in it, instead withdrawing his pair of matching daggers. The anger of everything that was done to him because of Cersei’s political misstep rose to the surface of his rage. He saw the guard as the embodiment of everything he’d suffered during his incarceration and _utterly_ unleashed until the largest part left of the corpse could be carried in one hand. His men had to drag him off in the end with his clothes matching the crimson sash around his body.

###  **THE HAUNTED FOREST – NEAR CASTLE BLACK**

“Best not ter look,” Tormund nodded in the direction of the dismembered corpse. “Not the worst thing I’ve seen out ‘ere. Not by a long way.” He added.

_At least the smell didn’t carry,_ thought Littlefinger unkindly. He’d seen all kinds of violence inside the walls of his brothels and heard tales of even greater depravity. Men were capable of the worst things. Not remarkable monsters – common folk. People you’d sit down with in a great hall and share a pitcher of wine  by a roaring fire . Those were the ones that surprised him the most.

“What is the worst thing that you have seen this side of the Wall?” Littlefinger asked, stepping over a piece of arm that had been left nearby. It was followed by parts from a deer and others from a bear. The dragon, it seemed, had feasted indiscriminately.

Tormund had not expected the question. “Usually, when Southerns get a taste of what goes on up ‘ere they close their eyes an’ pretend they didn’ see shit.”

“I like to wade into the sea with my eyes wide open.”

“Twelve year ago, worst thing I saw this side of the Wall was half my village scattered in the snow – legs an’ arms all removed and placed in great big spirals. The heads were nailed to _Ironwood_ trees so that the blue leaves fell over the bodies like tears. They were left there for us to find. The woman an’ children. Animals too. Everything that didn’ go out hunting. That was the day I left to join the King Beyond the Wall. Was art. You now? Like the fuckin’ patterns left on the stones by the First Men. We found them again and again. More villages.”

Littlefinger was used to being surrounded by liars but the Wildling King had no cause to lie and no patience for it. Indeed, it was harder to lie when no one else did. He was not used to it at all.

“Here. Take the side of this fucking thing.” Tormund added, pointing to the end of the pine branch. “Two years ago,” he continued, as they dragged the awkward branch aside, “the worst thing I’d seen was that Stag prick and his army mowing down Freefolk with their horses and takin’ Mance to the pyre.”

“I read the reports of Stannis Baratheon and his victory in the North. Of course, it was shortly followed by a stunning defeat. Fate is fickle with her grace.”

“Fuck fate. That was a pointless bit of murder. A waste. Fucking waste.”

“None of this, I take it, is the worst that you have seen?”

They dropped the tree branch. Tormund looked over to where their torches were stuck in the snow, burning furiously but pointlessly against the daylight. “No. No it wasn’. You already heard the whispers, I think. You only ask because you want to know if there’s any truth in ‘em.”

“Is there?”

“I faced those thousands of dead men, Smallbird, thousands upon thousands upon thousands. They picked their bones up from the ice and flung their corpses off the cliffs above the harbour so that they could reach us sooner and when they breached the wooden gates of Hardhome the fiercest, most terrifying fragments of humanity you’ve ever seen turned tail and _ran_ in terror toward the water. Then, when it was done, their frozen fuck of a king stood on the bank among the corpses of our family and friends, raised his hands,” Tormund mimicked the Night King’s action, “and all the dead took to their feet.”

“The dead are dead,” Littlefinger whispered.

“Aye… An’ they want ter fuckin’ kill us all.”

Littlefinger felt a chill take his bones. He wasn’t sure if it was the oppressive cold of the  _Haunted Forest_ or the fingers of ice reaching down from the pines but he could have sworn his blood had stilled and a pair of blue eyes faded into the forest. “And this is the war that the Stark bastard petitions the realm to fight?”

He wasn’t given an answer. Tormund’s attention had been caught by a large, flat piece of translucent material buried in the snow. Easily the size of a man’s shield, he used his boot to kick away a layer of snow. He gave a satisfied grunt. This was what they’d come for.

“Take there that edge.” Tormund pointed at the edge peeking from the snow.

Littlefinger hesitated. “What is it?”

“Dragon scale.”


	87. Empires Departing

 

###  **KING’S LANDING – WESTEROS**

The scarlet dragon screeched wildly, thrashing around in her cage. The bars groaned when her scaled body hit again and again, forcing the joins to shake loose. Covered in a plain cloth, the screams sounded human – half muffled in a mixture of terror and jealousy. Sam stumbled over to the cage and wrapped his arms around it, pushing it back onto the cart where he tied it down with a thicker rope. Ash’s jaws caught some of the cloth through the bars and shook it like a dog with a piece of meat.

“Careful!” Gilly rushed over with Little Sam crying in her arms. The babe had streams of tears down its cheeks.

_King’s Landing_ burned in front, crumpling into ruin. Sam, Gilly and a sizeable portion of Daenerys’ army had been left on the bank, away from harm.  M any felt the urge to join the fray as the carnage unfolded but they held back, tied to the muddy bank by the Queen’s orders. They’d not disobey. Not even in the face of certain murder.  Every single one of her soldiers would stand there in the cold stink  with the sea until the waters came if the dragon queen wished it so. She was more than their queen. She was their  _god_ .

The cage lurched from side to side. Sam did his best to hold it steady but the tiny dragon had more strength than he realised, nearly tearing itself free. “Being careful!” He insisted.

Laughter drifted on the air. Sam glared over to the patch of weed where the enormous  drunken Marwyn rolled his eyes toward the sky and lifted his bottle in mocking praise. All the world was burning and he revelled in the violence with a sick acceptance. These were his darkest fears come home to roost.  A Capital on fire. Innocence screaming with the last breath  of their  tortured lungs. Crowns switching heads like crabs shift ing shells along the  _Braavosi_ shores.  Chaos.  Exactly as the mad cunts in the streets of Oldtown had preeched.

“Shut up! Just – just _shut up_!” Sam yelled at him  in uncommon vulgarity. He couldn’t stand it. God knows what was happening to the others. How _dare_ Marwyn sit there like a drunken fool.

“What else – can one – do – but,” Marwyn’s words were terribly slurred by the wine, “laugh at – at – Death’s many – faces?”

“Oh I don’t know – _help out_ , maybe?” Sam snapped. He didn’t see the young Stark girl watching them keenly. She heard Death’s whisper too. Like Marwyn, its greeting left a smile upon her lips. She and Death were old friends. “This bloody dragon is gone mad.”

“It can smell terror.” Marwyn replied. “The females are the worst. That’s why the Valyrians fed them the flesh of children to keep them quiet.”

“That’s _not_ true.” Sam protested.

“Why? Because you – didn’t read – it in your – Lordly books?” Marwyn’s laughter deepened. “Ah Tarly. So much of – the world is a mystery – to you. The things I’ve seen. This – _this_...” He prodded his bottle at the air in the direction of _King’s Landing_. “This is _glorious_. An empire is on its knees. Take a – a moment. A toast – if you will.  Capture this image in your mind for all will say that this is the day the walls of the last Valyrian hold in Westeros fell. Shall we see – what – rises from the ashes? A phoenix or an eyeless corpse?”

Sam secured a second rope on the cage and stumbled back, sweat running off his face. The smoke  sank over the pale walls  of  _King’s Landing_ , pushed down by the cold. Some of it lay on the murky waters of the river while the rest billowed off toward the horizon. The air was filled with the scent of scorched flesh and the cry of the queen’s dragons echoed above like thunder. Ash screeched again, begging to join the others in the violence.

“It’s not a game, Marwyn,” Sam hissed. “People are dying in there. Thousands of people. This isn’t what the queen wanted.”

The wine was finished so Marwyn tossed the bottle into the river where it bobbed about. “Dragons feed on this shit. That’s why your little pet is trying to break its bonds. Wants a go at it. Wants to get its beak in some poor peasant’s chest. _Fire and blood._ This is all they’ve _ever_ been.”

“Daenerys is _more_ than that!” Sam insisted. The queen reminded him of Jon Snow.

“Is there a problem here?” Darkstar rode over on his horse, pulling up beside the cart. His eyes flicked between Gilly, Sam and the drunken mage who looked about ready to pop – all red and swollen with his leathers loosened.

“You have been in the city,” Sam replied. “What’s happening in there?”

Darkstar’s horse took a step backwards, bowing its head restlessly at the dragon’s cage. “Nothing folk like you need to see.” He could not get the image of melted corpses from his mind. Their pieces had merged with the destroyed buildings into one great mess of death. “From what we understand, the city defences ignited old stores of Wildfire hidden in tunnels. That triggered several explosions  which frightened the dragons.  They’re skittish buggers. ”

“Wildfire – inside their own city… Who would do such an irresponsible thing?” Sam asked.

“Cersei the cunt Lannister,” Marwyn replied. “The maesters at the citadel warned Robert Baratheon that the Wildfire should be moved but he couldn’t be bothered to clean up after the Mad King. It is something to behold though, wouldn’t you say? A wall of fire reaching to the sky. Who could imagine such terror cooked by a cult of cockless scholars...”

O ne of the ropes holding the cage snapped. Sam  lunged toward the cage, trying to hush the dragon  but its claws were already picking at the bolts . “She won’t settle!”

Darkstar dismounted and strode over to help. Arya moved as well but Darkstar pushed her  aside with a gloved hand. As he and Sam tossed another rope over the came loose and the whole thing tumbled off the cart with a crash. They stumbled away on instinct and were  thrown into the mud as the bars snapped and Ash came screaming out.

“Watch out!” Darkstar caught Sam by the back of his cloak and slammed him into the mud just in time to miss the cat-sized creature’s sharp claws. Gilly turned away, cradling her toddler as the dragon flew a few feet then tumbled back onto the soft bank. “Quick! Use the cloth. Hurry!” He shouted at the men – who all rushed over from their posts in pursuit of the dragon.

Many  threw themselves at the dragon . All missed. Ash tumbled over, covering her scarlet scales in filth before finally plopping into the river where she swam like a bloody snake, skirting easily to the other side and out of reach.

“Gods of the sea!” Sam sank to his knees and stared at the vanishing dragon. “She’ll kill us.”

“I’ll get her back for you.” Arya stepped forward to the edge of the reed. “I used to chase cats in that city.”

Darkstar eyed the wolf. “No. You’ll wait with the others until this is done. Never mind the dragon.”

The minute Darkstar turned his back on the Stark girl she was gone.  Wolves hunting dragons.

* ~*~*

S hips groaned as they sank  into  _Blackwater Bay_ . Tommen closed his eyes and listened to their dying cries.  M asts snapped. Sails floated off in tatters.  The c ontents of their bellies spilled into the abyss. Those that caught fire crackled like the torches that lined the inside of the  _Red Keep._ He was familiar with the sound. It had been his sole comfort during the long nights he spent as the forgotten child. The third and unneeded heir left in the company of cats and fools. Yes. He’d made friends with the fire while he read tales of dragons and knights late into the evening.  Those were his friends. Ghosts and dreams written in lonely ink  in the twilight hours.

Tycho did nothing but stare at his unexpected company. “You are just a boy, aren’t you?” He gripped the edge of the row boat as another wake of water rocked them. “A child.  A  _tall_ child. ”

Without opening his eyes, Tommen replied, “I am your king.”

“Not my king, I’m afraid,” he corrected. “We have no kings in Braavos. Only cold vaults full of gold and men to count them. Our gods are the mountains and kings the doors that hold our fortune.”

“Empty chasms, according to the birds.” This time Tommen turned to the old banker. He looked twice his age – withered by terror and the brush of deathly fingers that had grazed him more than once. “Or you wouldn’t be here making deals with traitors to the realm. The allure of my wife’s wealth did not escape your notice, nor did the lack of mine.”

“You are as much a king as I am a traitor,” he countered. “And we’ll both have our heads on spikes before the sun sets if we don’t find a way out of this harbour.”

They turned their attention to  _Blackwater Bay_ . It was a mess of death and fighting. They needed one of Euron’s ships but they were difficult to make out through the thick smoke that sat in a layer over the water. They had no choice but to continue waiting in the shadows.

* ~*~*

T he deep covered Varys in wet kisses. Lips of fallen souls that sucked at his throat – going for the last beats of his failing pulse. He felt their tentacles wrap around his legs right up to his thighs and drag him down. Claws caught his billowing clothes and tore the silk into shreds of golden blood.  It was there, in the closing moments, that he heard the voice again. Sickening, it whispered in his ear as it had done from the flames. Fishy eyes watching. Toothless mouths mocking.

‘ _You’ll outlive them all...’_ The voice  caressed, even as Varys felt Death come for the air in his lungs. _‘They’re coming with the Winter. Dead men and their king.’_ He thrashed against the water – bubbles of air escaping his lips like great engorged jewels rising through the darkness.  Then Illyrio’s face – white with eyes as blue as the _Sapphire Isle_. ‘ _Burn it all.’_ His lips moved but the words were said in Varys’ mind. _‘Burn it all.’_

Then Varys realised that he was laying on the sandy floor of the shallow water, lodged on a dangerous bank of sand. He unlatched the leather belt from his waist and let it and the steel weapons slip free. Without the weight he was able to stand and broke the surface for a breath of air. Shoulder deep, he turned – taking in the war. Either side the water was deep and black but even then some of the ship masts poked through the waves, marking the graves of their ship s .

“Varys! Varys! Behind you! Varys!”

He  heard Tyrion shouting through the crash of waves  but he didn’t see the imp hanging off the side of a smashed  boat , jabbing his sword in the air, pointing at the Lannister soldier lumbering through the water with half his cheek torn off and a mouth full of blood.

The soldier, armed with a plank of wood, swatted Varys like a fly. Pain ripped through his head and sent him toppling into the waves. Blood mixed with water. Varys reeled around, lifting his arms in time to catch the second hit. To both their surprise, he caught the plank and dragged it out of the soldier’s hands. Varys was a large man, a head taller than most and it was his sudden realisation of this that saved him. He took that plank of wood and swung it back with all the force he could muster, smashing into the man’s skull where it ripped free the rest of his skin.

He tossed it into the water in disgust, sparing a moment to stare at the lifeless body floating away with the current.

“Quickly!” Tyrion found his voice and waved Varys toward the boat. “Hurry you fool!”

Varys stepped off the sand bank and swam through the soup of  blood .  He was pulled out of the water by  _Unsullied_ arms and left on his knees, blood pouring from  the side of his head along with the salt water. Tyrion stood beside him and rested a hand on the Spider’s back.

“All right, old friend?” Tyrion asked.

“Get me off this fucking water,” he replied.

*~*~*

D aenerys closed her eyes as  _Rhaegal_ coughed up another wall of flame. She could not stop him. He was not listening to her silent calls or indeed, the screams that had sent her hoarse. He was terrified and calmed himself by swooping low over the rooftops and setting them alight. Jorah had tried – taking  _Viserion_ around to head him off but there was nothing either of them could do to bring him to heel.

_Drogon_ banked and headed into a particularly thick cloud of smoke. It wiped the world of all  presence. Daenerys gripped his hide once they were inside, suddenly unable to pick any detail. She struggled to breathe, choked by the filth in the air. It was there, peering into the grey that she saw something not quite real. A waking dream. A silver woman kneeling under a bower of blood. There was a beating heart laid on a bed of bone and a wolf licking one of the severed arteries. Ash fell in place of snow but that could have simply been the hell raining over _King’s Landing_ seeping into her thoughts. Daenerys looked up and saw a circle of light. The sun pulled back to reveal the moon. Then a red tide she’d seen lap against _Dorne’s_ beaches and finally, a nest of snakes slipping through the bones of a dragon and out its eye with a flick of its forked tongue.

It was _Drogon’s_ mournful chirp that woke her from the vision.  The air had cleared enough for her to see the shadow of the _Red Keep_ and the individual glows of fire spotted throughout the city. _Drogon_ reached his enormous paws forward and landed on the bridge of stone that vaulted across city anchoring the _Red Keep_ to the rest of the settlement. His weight and sudden landing knocked part of the wall down. Those Lannister men and civilians that had been on the bridge quickly dispersed, fleeing back toward the flames preferring them to the snarling monster. _Viserion_ copied the larger dragon and soon both tucked their wings in, taking a break from the skies.

Daenerys dismounted amid Jorah’s vehement protests. He joined her, taking her roughly by the arm when she appeared to wander in a daze  across the crumbling stone.

“Khaleesi _stop_...” He implored, tugging her back toward the protection of the dragons. “It’s not safe to be out here. The Keep is held by the Lannisters. The city is burning. My Queen...”

She tried to tug her arm free but his grip was determined. “I – I need to breathe...”  Her eyes watched her raging child cast a shadow over the city. “I can’t think.”

“Then let me fly you out of this smoke.”

“No I – I...” She couldn’t form the words while the world around her was thick with screams. There were people dying in every corner of the city. Almost all of them were lives she’d sworn to save. They’d never accept her as queen, not after a massacre like this. That was exactly what it was. A slaughter to sing songs about on the darkest nights. Not even her father, mad as he was, had torn the capital into ribbons of flesh. “This isn’t what I saw. It’s not – this is _not_ it!”

Keeping a cautious eye on the bridge, Jorah stepped in front of his queen and took her by both shoulders, forcing her back into the world with a firm shake. “Daenerys!”  H e hissed her name sharply. “We’re not in one of your dreams. This is  _real_ . Whatever you saw  in your visions , forget it. Open your eyes.” He begged.  They were open, staring wildly at the scene but he wasn’t sure they saw through the reveries of her nightmares. “ Prophecy is like the wind, Your Grace. It comes and goes as it pleases.”

Daenerys  followed the skeletal stretch of bridge,  sprawling out from where they stood. One side dipped down in a casual arc and vanished into  tightly packed houses with cloth-covered awnings . The other lifted toward a closed gate re-enforced with steel  and old iron dragon motifs left over from The Conquest . They were high, even on this low tier of the  _Red Keep_ .  _Blackwater Bay_ contained the burning corpses of  her fleet – indiscernible from each other.  People died on every side,  extinguishing like candles before the storm.  It was difficult to hear anything above the general roar.

“ _This_ is real,” Jorah repeated, softer than before. He raised one of his hands to her cheek and cupped it, using his thumb to wipe away a line of tears that had fallen unnoticed.

Finally, she nodded whispering, “Real…”  in agreement.  There was no denying the roughness of the leather straps around his hand or the smell of smoke that lingered in the air between them.  She’d been in pits of violence before but when the  _Dothraki_ fought it was on the grasslands where the smoke was white. The crash of buildings falling into the city and crunch of ships dying in the sea was as foreign to her as the shores of  _Westeros_ .

“There was Wildfire stored in vats beneath the city,” Jorah hurried to explain, looking over the destruction that continued to rage around them. _King’s Landing_ was in a perpetual state of collapse. “Cersei must have set  the whole lot alight. We never _dreamed_ that…  That…”

“She would burn her own city.” Daenerys finished for him. _They knew it was there,_ Daenerys thought to herself. _They all knew_ and they failed to advise her. “It wasn’t only Cersei that burned the city,” Daenerys breathed, her gaze drifting to _Rhaegal_ who’d finally found a perch on one of the surviving outer walls where he calmed himself, blackened by soot. He was nearly as dark as _Drogon_. “ Everyone saw my dragon and they’ll not forget his shadow over their homes.”

“We cannot think about that now,” Jorah insisted, then turned his attention to the _Red Keep_. “Cersei still lives and while ever that is true, the city  remains in the Lannister name.”

E ven with the company of dragons  _The Red Keep_ was built to keep out the largest fire - breathing monsters. It was a castle within a castle within a castle. The only way in was to tear the walls away one by one.  The ground shook and she reached for his arms, holding on to him as tightly as he held onto her.  Her hands left smears of blood over his armour.

“How do we get into that pink crypt of hers?” She demanded.

Jorah was about to reply when the bridge did something almost indescribable. The ancient stone construction rippled, rising up and down like a wave casually making its way toward the shore. Everything on it rose and fell but, after the first surreal moments of tranquillity, the unusual tension placed on the stone bridge sent a shockwave of devastating cracks in tow. It began  at the edges  of the bridge  which crumbled, mostly dropping over the side without ceremony. Then it was the turn of the ground which had liquefied in places and torn itself into a gaping ruin in others.  Stones exploded under the pressure. Dozens of fragments hit Jorah and Daenerys, tearing holes in their armour. The larger pieces, the size of arrow heads, went straight through  their flesh.

Daenerys dropped, clutching her leg with a shriek of pain. She looked over to Jorah who had not flinched despite the fresh gush of blood from his thigh.

“Khaleesi,” he begged, extending his hand. “Run!”

The bridge lifted again, this time curling back as the last and largest cache of Wildfire forced its way out of the ground next to the _Red Keep_ with devastating explosions – like dropping a stone into a pond. It exploded with all the fury of the Red God, blanketing the world in a green sunrise. Tendrils of hell pawed at the remaining buildings, searing marks into their stone faces.

_Drogon_ spooked and backed off the ledge. He screeched, flapping his wings furiously creating a draft of wind that knocked both Jorah and Daenerys to the ground.  The whole thing was  both coming down and exploding out. She’d seen this before – in her visions of  _Valyria_ when the mountains had opened their throats and forced their outer layers away in a hellish doom. Now she was trapped in a similar malady. The bridge had broken free of its ancient holds and was now lifting, riding a cloud of green fire that had smashed its way out from the sewers below.

“Jorah!” Daenerys caught his arm – her hand sliding down until it locked around his wrist.

Jorah contorted his body, reaching for one of the great stones that used to line the edge of the bridge but now became the only thing stopping the pair from sliding off into the flames.  The heat followed the noise, scorching the underside of the bridge and melting the stone at the edges. Daenerys shuffled away from it, climbing over the rubble. The floor of the bridge leaned right over into a near vertical wall. The last of the soldiers that had manned it tumbled off into the flames with short lived screams. The entire structure separated from the  _Red Keep_ , which was also beginning to waver in the extreme heat. Somewhere in the background, Jorah noticed the dragons screeching.

There was nowhere to go. All Jorah could do was hang onto the stone with the queen dangling beneath while the eerie glow of the Wildfire surrounded them, beckoning them toward death. The sound of the explosion was so loud that it blew off layers of stone from the castle walls. The birds were knocked out of the sky, falling like snow into the burning waters.

Fire did not scare her but she’d been warned about the green flame. It had its own magic and for all she knew, it’d turn her to ash like all the rest.

*~*~*

“Can you hear that?” Tommen asked, edging toward the front of the boat. It sloshed about in the water as the candle in Tycho’s lantern started to die.

“I don’t-” but Tycho stopped when he too heard the rumble coming out of the throat of the sewer. It was like a storm – or a dragon – or the gods themselves waking from their long slumber. _Yes_ , he definitely heard that. He turned back to the boy-king, face white. “Sit there!” he pushed the boy back into his place, grabbed the oar and forced it below the water where it made contact with the silt. Tycho heaved and the boat drew its reluctant body along the water.

“You said it was too dangerous in the harbour...”

Tycho’s eyes were set on the depths of the tunnel where the sound was deepening. “Never you mind about pirates, boy.”

Their boat exited the shadows and entered the smoke. Immediately, the choppy water tossed them from side to side, knocking the candle over in its glass cage where it quickly extinguished itself in a pool of wax.

“Steady! What are you-” Tommen gaped at the depths of the tunnel. Their darkness was replaced with a green eye that grew and grew until he realised that it was a rush of flame forcing its way through the arteries of the city straight toward them. Tommen grabbed the old banker by his robes and dragged him to the edge of the boat. He tossed himself into the water, taking the struggling Tycho with him.

A moment later, the force of the explosion erupted out of the tunnel and hurled their boat a dozen feet into the air, smashing it to splinters before evaporating the first foot of water with flame.

Beneath the surface, the pair of them saw green light dance across like aurora in the Northern skies.

* ~*~*

T he bridge smashed back into the ground, collapsing the last of its arms into piles of pink rubble. Its innards of iron and  _Valyrian_ steel were exposed running through the structure like veins.  The impact left Jorah dazed, laying on the gentle slope. He’d hit so hard that one of his shoulder plates shattered and tumbled along beside him in pieces. The world shimmered, hidden under veils of smoke and heat. He shook his head.  _Daenerys…_

Jorah forced himself to sit. Pain ripped down his arm of course, it wasn’t his. “Khaleesi!” He saw her hand clinging to one of the silver rods, poking out from the edge of the bridge. He half-crawled, half-slid down the slope toward her. There was a short rise of stone at the edge and then a nasty drop from the edge of the bridge. Beneath there was nothing but flames where the city had been turned into an ocean of fire. The explosion of Wildfire had opened the ground and left a crater below exposing the bedrock.

_There she was_ , his queen, dangling over the abyss with a single pearly hand latched onto the stone. The rest of her body swung beneath. How like the young princess she looked, her face awash with ash and blood. Jorah steadied himself against the wall and reached down, wrapping his hands around her arm. He tried to drag her up but the constant quakes rippling through the ruined bridge threatened to send them both into the fire.

Daenerys  _knew_ that he would drop her. She could feel the slip of his fingers against her sweat.  The flames waited beneath, dancing wantonly. “Jorah-”

“No!” He snapped, before she could finish. “Bring your other hand up.”

“Jorah...” There were many things her knight could do but he could not fight the pull of the world any more than she could stand against death. “Forgive me.”

And she was gone.

Jorah leaned over the edge and stared into the abyss of flame. His eyes searched the seething hell but his queen was nowhere.

*~*~*

The plume of green fire rose above the  _Red Keep_ , dominating the city. Like ink from a giant squid, it grew in bulbous clouds – clawing into the air. A pale exterior of heat rushed ahead of it, knocking men of every army to their knees, including Sam and Gilly waiting on the bank. They were pushed backwards into the muddy grasp and the air stolen out of their lungs by the sound.

Even Marwyn sobered at the sight, crawling forward before dipping his head in some kind of prayer to whatever gods he’d picked up on his travels.  They all watched as the great bridge that connected the  _Red Keep_ to the rest of the city lifted into the air and then was thrown back to the ground in a cloud of white ash.

Quaithe wandered out from the woods. Neither the empty cage nor rage of debris in the air turned her head. Her eyes were fixed on the flames. She’d seen them many times in her dreams. She, alone, knew what was about to emerge from their depths.

“Wait...” She breathed, her long gown rippling in the wind.

Marwyn stumbled to his feet to stand beside the Eastern star-witch. “This glorious war of man is over.”

“Her flames burn like the stars,” Quaithe continued, absently staring. “And her arrival in the Capital is like the great moon that crashed into the world, scattering fire over the land.”

“You _knew_ ,” Marwyn hissed.

“So did you, in your drunken reveries – or weren’t you listening to the whispers of sleeping gods?”

M arwyn’s blood went cold.

*~*~*

Black leather  unfurled in the fire, catching the silver queen. Her crimson cloak covered her body as she rolled along  _Drogon’s_ wing, tumbling all the way over his shoulder until she lay draped across his back. Flames licked around her, catching hold of her clothes which caught alight and burned. Dazed, she reached for the curved spikes that lined  _Drogon’s_ spine and clung to them like a child to its mother’s breast.

The dragon emerged from the flames. Its enormous wing span dwarfed the remains of the bridge where Jorah sat. It climbed into the sky, carrying the queen away from devastation.  The fire curled into vortices at the tips of his wings.

T here was no one coming to rescue him. Jorah shuffled along the perilous edge toward the  _Red Keep_ . Pieces of the bridge fell away constantly, crumbling into the city. There were fewer screams. Beyond the city walls a tide of people funnelled out into the surrounding grasslands, fleeing. Those soldiers that remained had no idea if their commanders lived. Tyrell, Lannister, Pirate, Unsullied or Dothraki, they all brawled in the pockets of civilisation.

There was a three foot gap separating the bridge from the  _Red Keep_ . Jorah lingered at the edge where the rush of wind from below reminded him of the drop beneath. With a pair of long swords and a full suit of armour, it was not an insignificant jump to attempt and, he lamented, his advanced years were not making things any easier.

With a nod to the Old Gods, Jorah took a run at the gap and launched himself across it. He hit the ground, rolled and came to a stop at the foot of the great doors. Their pewter dragons looked down at him, mocking from their ancient masters. Jorah was no fool. He understood that the Targaryen conquerors were murderers escaping the demise of their people. Opportunists looking to survive. What had he brought the realm? Another dragon queen and _still_ he believed that this was the only way. Without her fire and the vicious beasts the realm was lost.

So he stood there, in front of the great door with nothing but a smouldering wasteland at his back, and drew his ice-made sword. He touched  _Snowflake’s_ tip to the metal hinges and flinched as they shattered. Finally, when enough had been destroyed, the might y door groaned.

*~*~*

Cersei stood by the window, coveting a goblet of wine with her corpse-guard silent at the door. Wide cracks rang around her room. Books had fallen off the shelf and dashed themselves on the rug while the ink bottles on her desk were all smashed and dripping black blood onto the stone.

The goblet of wine was empty.  She nudged it forward until it teetered on the edge. A moment later it fell. Cersei turned and eyed her wasteland of a room. Her last loyal servant was a walking dead, conjured into life.  Her son  had been smuggled into the inner sanctum of the  _Keep_ along with his bitch of a queen leaving her, a lioness, to growl at the predators.

“Enough of this,” her words rattled out of her throat. She reached up, touching the thin crown she’d placed in her hair then tightened each of the ties on her corset. Cersei was dressed in crimson and gold robes left over from the days she was queen in name as well as heart. _Dress in life as you wish in death_ – those were her father’s words though she wondered how he felt about his last breaths  forged with a crossbow in his chest and shit on the floor. For all his glory and finery he’d died as the basest of creatures.

*~*~*

Wet footsteps glistened on the shale floor. The lower levels of the  _Red Keep_ were made of barely polished bedrock, lifted out of the water with the same malcontent as  _Dragonstone’s_ walls.  T he two buildings concealed the same black heart  within their folds. It was all one coastline, stretching from the frozen North of  _Eastwatch by the Sea_ to the golden, dune-edged waters of  _Dorne._ Beneath it all lay fire.

The dwarf reached out, brushing his fingertips along the walls of the _Red Keep_ as he walked. A smear of blood was left behind as an offering to the ghosts pressed many layers deep.

_The Red Keep_ reared around  the ugly figure , full of groans and crumbling stone as  the  _Keep’s_ feet wrestled between the ruin outside and the waves crashing inside its lower tunnels.  Flames contained in iron hands lit the passageway. They were beyond his reach, mounted high.  To his left, the dungeons howled with all manner of tormented soul. He dared not venture there for the creatures trapped behind the bars were so far departed from humanity that they’d tear apart the flesh of any breathing thing that came to rescue them. That’s what it meant to languish in the  _Black Cells_ . They were a place of abject misery shuffled beneath the airs and graces of the royal court  to remind those who flirted with treason that only horror lay that way.

P ast the pale skulls of fallen dragons and up, through iron grate doors and empty hallways littered with abandoned weapons – Tyrion climbed.  Black stone became pink and the granite surface glittered. Still he dripped, soaked through from the salt water.

The first Lannister guard he saw froze in the passage. Recognition of his former Lord and an almost  _longing_ for the days past caused him to flee leaving Tyrion alone with the walls.

“Coward...” He hissed, at the empty corridor. None of them had the stomach to face him.

He’d expected the  _Red Keep_ to be a nest of soldiers  but nearly all of them were fighting in  whatever was left of the city . The Tyrells  were  in charge of the  inner  palace but those turncoats belonged to Daenerys and her army. They had gone from room to room,  clearing out any lingering soldiers before joining the fight outside . The bodies they left behind had already gone cold  and offered no objection to Tyrion’s progress.  He avoided their dead eyes.

*~*~*

Cersei stepped aside as the Mountain pushed open the doors of the throne room open. Then she entered the patterned floor and lifted her gaze to the violent vaults of wood and steel knitted together on the ceiling in a spider web. This gruesome marriage formed a rib cage along the length of the hall which was bordered on one side by stained glass windows. The red and gold light they let in danced like flames and suddenly she was struck by how _dragon-like_ the entire building was. Though Robert and his rebellion had taken possession of the castle  mounting stag heads and lion motifs in every corner, there was no denying that they were living in the throat of someone else’s dream. The room mocked but Cersei set her eyes on the miserable iron throne.

A dragon passed outside the window like a shadow puppet. She imagined the crowds that had welcomed her and Robert in those early days – bloodied faces, fresh from war, kneeling as they passed through the Mad King’s domain. All the world glittered that day. The dragon was dead – his blood barely cleaned from the floor beside the throne. All his bitch children dead or scattered to the seas. The last toll of tyranny laid to rest in a shower of gemstones and storm that raged all night over _Blackwater Bay_.

In that moment Cersei had felt the true love of the people. Their hearts were fickle – easily won by false faith and golden promises. Their cheers became jeers and one by one they’d picked up arms against her.

It was not sunlight but  _flame_ that fed the coloured light at the windows. She closed her eyes to its warmth and listened to the crackle of melting stone. This was the dragon’s dream. That mad old cunt  and all his bastard children .  _Valyria_ had been taken by the gods and now those same angry creatures would take  _Westeros_ as well.

Her embroidered train scratched over the rough steps as she climbed toward the throne. Without hesitation, Cersei lowered herself into the painful seat, curling her hands over the arms where the blades were at their sharpest. The message was clear.  _Do not get comfortable with power._

“You may leave.”

The Mountain dipped his head and obeyed without thought, following his queen’s demands by vanishing into the shadows.

Cersei was left alone with the throne the empty room. Only the dead  remained to serve in her departed empire  and this time her father wasn’t coming through the door to save her.  Fleetingly, she imagined Jaime riding in on his white horse, an army at his back.  His golden hair, thick and gleaming with a sword in a hand long since taken. For a moment a smile caught the edge of her lips but then it was gone.

Then the door opened.

“I have been expecting you, little brother,” announced Cersei from her mournful perch. “One might say I have been waiting for this moment all of our lives.” There was a dagger in her hand which she toyed with, turning over and over so that it caught the firelight outside.

The imp closed the door and made his way through the empty hall. His footsteps echoed on the stone while the huge torches burned above, lighting the  red marble columns where he could still make out the scratch marks left by the stunted dragons which used to sail around the court.

“Stumbling along as usual with that unholy gait. Your leathers too long and your sword too short. I’d know you from a thousand miles. The runt of the litter, demanding everyone’s attention from your first wails until your last, selfish shrieks. Now you have it. My attention.” She spread her arms in fearsome beckon. “Whatever shall you do with it?”

He still had not spoken. Tyrion stopped at the stairs in front of the throne and took in the sight of his sister sprawled  across his nephew’s throne with all her yards of golden clothes falling like liquid fire over the coals.  Roaring lions played on her robes, set there with the finest needlework Lannister coin could buy.

“Well – what is it that you want, Tyrion?”

The imp, dripping from every fold of fabric, rested his hand on his  own  stunted  sword. “Not this.”

Cersei laughed  cruelly . “Of course you want this,” she insisted. “You killed our father  because he borrowed your favourite whore  then fled the realm  with your tail between your legs  and took up arms against your own kin.”  She lifted her finger, pointing to the windows. “Is your foreign  tyrant all you hoped? Mother would be so proud  of  your achievement . Burning the heart out of the realm in one afternoon – climbing up the ranks of greatest slaughters in recorded history .  Did you bring the cock-less spider with you  too ? Of course you did. H e has had his beady eyes on the throne long before you or I. Or didn’t you know that he was a Targaryen by birth,  floundering around for another dragon for the throne ? Not all the whispers in the realm belong to him.”

T hat, at least,  gave Tyrion pause.  It could have been a lie but then it made equal sense for it to be true.  “One way or another, Lannister rule is finished. The glorious dynasty that never was.”

“My son lives.”

Tyrion shook his head. “No. The king is dead. Long the live the queen.”

“Liar.”

“I am many things, _dear_ sister, ‘liar’ is not one of them. Drinking and the Eastern philosophy of wet-lipped whores are better suited to a dwarf.  I’ll dabble in coin, partake in murder but lying is a pet of yours.”

There was a definite  hesitation before Cersei  mustered a reply . “If  my son were dead I’d know. I’d  _feel_ it.”

Tyrion shrugged. “You did not notice Jaime slip into the shadow world. Oh yes, he came for you. We caught him on the outskirts of the Blackwater Rush. The Dothraki butchered his horse and Daenerys fed everything except his golden hand to her dragons or didn’t you wonder why he never sent any ravens in return? I read your ravens and tossed them into the wind.”

A heavy tear coated the curve of her eye. She dared not blink in case it fell. The world around her  rippled . The windows. The columns. Even the chandeliers with their dripping wax.  Ash swirled in the air, falling in the throne room.  Grim snow that refused to melt.

“He left the rest of your army in the North. They’ll defect, of course, when they learn of what happened here today. Ironically it is my wife that will inherit them. A bit of justice from the Father for all that we have ravaged in this world. I am at peace with it. Let the Starks have the men. They’ll need them when the Winter comes.”

This time a pair of tears escaped Cersei. “And you expect me to believe that the  Targaryen bitch let you come here alone to-”

“Daenerys does not know that I am here.” Tyrion interrupted. “No one sent me.”

Cersei straightened in her chair. That meant that he was alone. She became more aware of the dagger in hand. “Have you come to kill me, little brother? I have been waiting for your blade _all my life_.” With that, Cersei stood,  dagger in hand, towering over the room. Her power lasted for a flickering moment before the room blurred and she stumbled backwards, reaching for the Iron Throne to steady herself but the melted swords cut her hand.

“No need, I have already killed you.” Tyrion pointed to her face. Cersei lifted her hand and found a river of blood slipping from her nose. “The poison takes a while to work but my new friends assure me that death will come as surely as the wine you drank earlier.”

C ersei dropped her dagger. It clattered to the stone floor – tumbling down the steps until it landed at Tyrion’s feet. He eyed the blade then kicked it aside. Cersei fumbled her way back into the throne, unable to stand as she felt the life dragged from her veins.

“I said your name every night.” Tyrion continued, squaring off against the throne. The queen was draped over it like the corpse she was about to become. “Whispered it to the gods. _Cersei Lannister. Cersei Lannister. Cersei Lannister..._ ”

He climbed the steps, one for each time he said her name. The poison had paralysed Cersei.

“Yours is not the only name on my list. The truth is, I couldn’t give a _fuck_ about the war or  the games men play with thrones.” He reached forwards and took hold of the golden lion-head necklace. “I came all this way for one reason. To kill you.”

Cersei gasped as her brother wound the chain around his hand, shortening it. Then it dawned on her. He was going to strangle her before the poison finished its work to make sure she felt the pain.

“This is right, isn’t it?” Tyrion asked. “I would not wish to offend prophecy.”

C ersei could not even lift her hand to stop him.

“There’s one more thing, sister...” Tyrion had to climb into her lap to get enough force on the chain to choke her. As Cersei turned a pale grey in hastening death, he leant in and whispered against her ear. _“The North remembers.”_

Bewildered, a final moment of fight entered her veins. She struggled for a breath  causing the chain  to cut into her throat. Then, in horror, she saw the eyes of a wolf – not a lion – pushing her into death.

When it was done, the imp descended the stairs,  clutching the bloodied lion’s chain while Cersei’s corpse hung  limp across the throne.

H e was halfway across the room when the great doors opened again and two figures stepped into the room and stopped dead, rooted in horror.

V arys mouth hung open while his beady eyes went wide. In front of him, Tyrion strode away from the Iron Throne with a demonic snarl on his lips while the  _real_ Tyrion stood beside him, aghast.

There were no words for Tyrion, only utter shock as his doppelganger dropped a bloody necklace onto the ground. Then he reached up, running his hand under the edge of his chin before peeling the skin back to reveal-

“Arya!” Tyrion mouthed, as the Stark girl emerged.

Varys reached for one of the columns, barely able to stand he was so shocked. “This is the magic of the Many Faced God,” he hissed. “ You’re – you’re one of  _them_ .”

“You found me in Braavos, or did you forget, Lord Varys? The Faceless God knows all your secrets.”

Varys looked paler than Cersei’s corpse.

“What have you done...” Tyrion eyed the Iron Throne where his sister lay dead. “Is she...” But of course she was.

“The wolves always come for the lions.” Arya warned, then pushed past them, dropping Tyrion’s face onto the floor where it flopped against the tiles in a sickening _thud_.

When she was gone, Varys bent down and retrieved the hideous piece of flesh,  holding it up to the light. Tyrion’s likeness stared out from the flesh except for the gouged holes where the eyes should be. Those were a kind of glamour.

“What are you doing?” Tyrion asked, as Varys walked over to one of the torches and held the edge into the flame until it caught alight.

“You killed your sister,” Varys insisted, returning the face to the floor where it continued to burn until it was an unrecognisable pile of ash. “We never speak of this.”

“But Arya’s a – a-”

“Forget what you saw, Tyrion old friend, or you’ll end up a set of eyes on a stone wall. They already have your face. Only the very foolish play with magic of the dead. Even the Braavosi know that. Whatever Arya is now, she is no longer a Northern Lord’s daughter or a piece for the board of kings.”

Tyrion stepped toward his sister, whom he could barely look at. Blood ran in a pair of rivers from her nose  while a scar of red around her neck matched the chain he rescued from the floor. He’d dreamed her death a thousand times and yet the reality of it shook him through to his withered fragment of a soul. Whatever else Cersei turned into, she’d begun as  _family_ . Blood of his blood. His father always said that Cersei had the look of her mother.

“There are worse ways your sister could have met her end,” Varys continued, dabbing the side of his head where the wooden plank had ripped away a gash of flesh. “She certainly tried to make yours a public mess for the cheap entertainment of the masses.”

“We have to find the king.” Tyrion insisted, pocketing Cersei’s necklace. “There’s a chance my nephew survived the butchery.”

“As you wish but take care, little Lord. Cersei may be dead but her guardians are not. No one has seen the Mountain since the fight began.”

“Cersei is dead…” Tyrion repeated Varys’ words as they deserved to be said again. “You know, Varys, sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if mother had not died in a pool of blood and screams, bringing me into the world. Were my sister’s sentiments of hatred the product of grief or were they fears of a whispered prophecy from the lips of a mad woman?”

“We can never know the truth of what did not happen,” Varys replied carefully. “These things are little more than dreams.”

“Of course, you are right,” Tyrion agreed, “but of all the Lannisters, Cersei was the truest. I remember the only time I saw her cry was when Rhaegar Targaryen passed her over for the Martell princess. She liked his pretty face and soft voice.”

“A terrible match that would have been.”

“Perhaps. Robert was a brute who loved a ghost and Jaime-” Tyrion felt sick at the thought of what he would tell Jaime. “In any case, the debt is paid. My sister is dead and all her wickedness with it.”

* ~*~*

T he explosion spooked the horses. All three of them rose up onto their back legs, kicking at the flames engulfing the city. Jon, Davos and Jacquen pulled them away, cooing at the animals as the man made thunder rumbled over the hills that surrounded  _King’s Landing_ .  A tide of people ran from the city, spilling onto the dirt roads.

“What manner of hell is this?” Asked Jon, eyes wide. He had never been to the Capital. It was a thing of legend, brought to life from the pages of his maester’s scrolls. Now its edges were black and heads tumbled from spikes set into the walls in a ghoulish vision he’d come to expect from beyond _The Wall_.

“A different kind of war than you’re used to,” Davos replied. “Not the first I’ve seen in this neck of the world. I was ‘ere the day Blackwater Bay turned to fire but this…”

The largest of the dragons – a great black beast, soared over the wall of the city and came to land on the grass fields not far from where they were standing. All of them fell silent as the  creature dragged its  clawed  feet over the ground, kicking up dirt before rolling slightly. A woman fell down its back,  tumbling  onto  its wing and finally the ground. The creature carefully lifted its wing over  her body, protecting  the queen from view.

Jacquen felt sick as he watched the dragon shuffle around in the dirt. As much as he’d like to put a spear through its heart, he’d seen things lately that steadied his blade, including the resurrected  Targaryen bastard at his side.  His god had plans that included these creatures of fire and he’d not argue. “A man believes that this is your aunt,  queen Daenerys.”

Jon did not need an advisor to tell him that the streak of silver on the dirt was a Targaryen.

“Now then – where are you going?” Davos rode forward in alarm, as Jon started off toward the dragon. “Snow!”

*~*~*

The great door twisted to the side leaving a gap  with the stone big enough for Jorah to climb through. It was dark inside the  _Red Keep_ and eerily quiet. Usually soldiers  from the losing side retreated into the holdfast as the battle drew to a close but most of the Lannister men had been turned to ash and rained down over the city to join their melted swords.

Jorah kept his ice-sword raised as he made his way along the hallways. There was a deeper castle, buried inside the walls  constructed in the earliest years of  _King’s Landing_ . If anyone in the royal family was left alive they’d have taken up refuge with Olenna Tyrell. If she was true to her word and Daario’s pirates towed the line then he should fin d only friends  ahead.

Instead, Jorah stumbled upon corpses. Dozens of then. It was hard to say what had killed them but he doubted it was the pirates. They looted the bodies of nobles but the minor lords and ladies that he found butchered in their rooms were dripping with jewels. The Tyrell soldiers did not have the stomach to gut young women and children – nor did Jorah, which is why he turned out of a room and threw up against the wall, coughing back bile at the sight inside. Whatever did this – it was a lifeless monster.


	88. The Dragon's Dream

 

 

###  **KING’S LANDING – WESTEROS**

Tommen dragged himself out onto the muddy bank of the northern shore where the black rocks gave way to whispering salt marsh. The outgoing tide left a stretch of crab-holed flats stinking in the sun. Tycho followed warily, using the oar scavanged from the boat to pull himself out of the water, wandering forward until he collapsed on the bank. He lay on his back, blinking up at the smoke. Grey flecks of ash spiralled in the air, rising in graceful arcs where warmth from the burning city met the sea spray. They danced in front of his eyes like something out of a nightmare until they settled, one by one, on his soft flesh.

Scrambling to his feet, Tommen faced _King’s Landing_.  Was this the shortest war in the history of the _Seven Kingdoms_?  An hour, no more and all that he’d ever known was gone. The _Red Keep_ remained with deep scars across its face, defiant to the last. He held onto hope that his wife was safe inside, protected by the Tyrell name. It was clear their betrayal preceded the attack. _Her betrayal_ , he reminded himself. Margaery’s behaviour made perfect sense. Her rages and her tears. He loved her more than anything in the world and she’d tossed him onto the pyre to burn with his mother whose true fate he could not even guess at.

H ow ridiculous then, that he smiled at the thought of Margaery safe… He would have  torn his realm  into raven’s scraps  to save her life if only she’d asked. There was no going back to her now. The Targaryen queen needed him dead  and Margaery  as a breathing piece on the board .

“Why did Euron want me alive?” Tommen asked. “Ironborn do not care a shit for Lannisters – or honour. They were clearly brought into King’s Landing under treaty with the Targaryen so what is there to gain?”

Tycho gripped the oar which he had laid over his chest. “Insurance, more than likely. A touch extra coin?” His body was not made for this level of abuse. “Who could tell... Euron is a pirate and _insane_.  Easily the most unreasonable man I have ever met. Personally I made a habit of avoiding his business ventures. Now it seems I have one forced upon me.”

Tommen remained calm, focused on the ships knocking together in the final hours of battle. Further still, he spied the looming shadow of _Dragonstone_ threaded into horizon. A trail of smoke blackened the sky above the island. He’d seen it many times on clear days. It was named for its fiery breath long before Targaryens landed there and called it theirs. He always thought it looked like an ink bottle belonging to the gods where they might scrawl out their chords of displeasure on the sunrise. “We need a way onto one of those ships.”

“There are slim odds of that, Your Grace. It is a _miracle_ we weren’t picked off by sharks the first time we swam ashore. Not even a fisherman could make that swim with all their limbs attached. Neither you nor I have a bone of the sea in us.”

“Then we’ll walk,” Tommen insisted, standing over the banker.

Tycho sat up, drenched in mud with a disbelieving look. “You  _are aware_ , Your Grace, that Dragonstone is an  _island_ . You cannot walk to an island.”

“You are most welcome to stay here,” Tommen replied coldly, all of his Lannister parentage seeping from his eyes.

Tycho didn’t fancy that option. He stuck his oar into the filth and pushed himself up before following the young king. There was a crescent of mud flats ahead of them that they’d have to clear before the tide ran in. It rose nearly three metres with the moon at full face. Nothing compared to _Braavos_ where entire islands vanished into the blue.

He eyed the bank. If they were forced into the long grass they’d never make it beyond the first flush of swamp snakes. Behind that was the constant screech of wagons and screaming children as half the bloody city ran toward the Northwest. In the skies ahead, clouds hung in lashings of ice-blue, churning silently with swells of snow locked in their terrifying structures. A storm feeding off dragonfire...

Tycho looked at those destitute masses and saw them as gold. There was a time when he’d meditate on a way to extrapolate as much wealth as possible from their suffering but the longer he lived in the throes of war, the closer Tycho came to the realisation that annihilation and war were not the same thing at all. Coin only had value if there was someone left alive to lend it to.

*~*~*

“Why do you look at me so?”

“Look at you _how_?” Varys drawled, slipping into his wry tone practised in the courts of mediocre psychopaths wearing crowns and wielding guts full of sweet wine.  The burned remains of the outside wall groaned. Varys glanced at the ceiling, hoping rather than believing it was structurally sound. As long as the flames didn’t spread to the rest of the hall they’d be fine.

Another window exploded. Neither of them startled – well used to the constant showers of coloured glass.

“Like I’ve spawned some kind of demon scraped off the underside of Mormont’s boot.”

They sat either side of Cersei’s body which they’d left draped over the iron throne. Tyrion fussed with his sister’s chain, intent on returning it to Jaime if they ever met again. That, at least, he could do. Most of the time he did his best to ignore their relationship. It turned his stomach but Tyrion knew what it was like to be a prisoner of the Lannister name. It was a special kind of madness that drove its captives into unspeakable sins.

“Arya Stark wore your face,” Varys replied evenly, “as if you were a painted mask in a Dornish carnival.”

“As you said, Braavosi assassins wear faces that do not belong to them. I have not forgotten Missandei.” He’d _never_ forget Missandei or Grey Worm or any of the other names that were destined for the abyss before this war was done.

“Or old Hightower, if this Tarly is to be believed.”

“Exactly.” Tyrion agreed.

“ _Exactly..._ ”

“What?”

“Both those people are _dead_.” Varys stared into nowhere while flame and shadow played along the windows to their left. The explosions were becoming less frequent as the battle tapered off. Battles were all the same. A great amount of expectation – an elaborate dance like mating birds – a clash of swords – then a dying gasp as both lay on the ash. The first to stand  on whatever was left of its legs claimed the crown.

T yrion stood and walked in front of the seated Varys  which made them roughly the same height. “I am not dead.”

“It is advantageous for me that you live. A Lannister on the arm of a Targaryen helps break up the foreign conqueror narrative. Who are you? Another nobody from the Free Cities? Did you join us in Braavos or have you been here for many years, placed inside the Capital to wait for the right moment?”

Tyrion was –  _furious_ . “This is  _my_ face. Father’s  _whore_ . Look at this.” He traced the diagonal scar that went from temple to chin. “Do you think anyone would  _choose_ to look like this? This – this face of ridicule and hate?  _I don’t want to be me_ . Besides. Faces might be conjured  readily enough but my wit – that belongs to me.”

“You do appear rather calm in the presence of your sister’s death.”

“Would you rather I bawl and rage? I am _tired_ of feeling  where my sister is concerned. She has bled me dry. Any emotion I had for her is at the bottom of a wine pitcher or thrown up against a wall.”

Varys hated to go against his infallible logic but Tyrion had a point. “If I accept that you are  the genuine  Tyrion Lannister, that is almost  _worse_ .”

Now Tyrion was both cross and confused. “How so?”

“If these zealots can take on the faces of the living, how are we to know what is real and what is the mummer’s show? Magic has rules, like everything else but all the old rules are changing.”

“Humour.” Tyrion dead panned. “In my experience, the devout are rarely blessed in that virtue. They’re more inclined toward murder and contemplation.” Tyrion was trying very hard to shift the memory of his own face flopping around in Varys’ hand before it was casually tossed into the fire. Maybe this was all a dream and he’d wake up on the boat, rocking about on the water with another bruise. He tried to hold that peaceful thought while knowing full well that this nightmare was all a prelude. “Arya did not strike me as a zealot. There was plenty of Stark blood in her veins.”

“I have to agree.” Varys admitted. “My birds tell me that Faceless assassins are similar to the Night’s Watch. Their old lives and identities are left at the black and white door. They wash away their identities to assume those of strangers. Ultimately they believe themselves servants of death.”

“While taking coin for ambitious murders...”

“Irony aside, you are right. Starks serve nothing except Winter.”

“The Night’s Watch suffers defectors, Arya may have run away from her new god for a spot of vengeance.”

“Or she is truly one of _them_ and her Starkly honour is a pretence.”

“How about we worry about that existential crisis _after_ we  clean up this mess?”

“Fair enough.” Varys raised his hands. “A spider should never leave too many flies in his web with their wings loose.”

“This must be very strange for you.” Tyrion returned to his step and sat upon the stone. “You have waited a long time for a Targaryen to return to King’s Landing and now, here you are, sitting amongst the ash. Is it all you dreamed, Varys? Do spiders lament death?”

“I remember the smell,” Varys admitted, “of burning flesh. The Mad King had a cage hanging from that beam.” He pointed to a place in the ceiling which was slightly darker than the rest beneath a halo of soot. “He put a lot of people in that cage. Murders. Would be usurpers. Foreign detractors. Political victims. Wrongly accused. Oh yes, I helped put a great many of them into those cages then I’d stand over there, by the window and watch as the fires were lit by nervous guards. Their hands shaking. Flinching away from the first rush of heat. You never forget the screams. It is only when you listen to the cries rising louder and louder that you understand the mercy of the sword.”

“Daenerys has not put anyone in a cage.”

“Perhaps not but I heard she fed a few people to her dragons in the crypts beneath Meereen.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe… _Maybe_ she is like any other ruler, using fear to ensure swift victory. _Maybe_ Targaryens  are born in pits of smoking flesh whether they wish it or not. _Maybe_ you and I have orchestrated the complete destruction of our own empire.”

“Maybe,” Tyrion offered an alternative, “you can’t have the dragons without their fire. And if what the ravens say in the North turns out to be true, we’re going to need the fire – so we need the dragon that comes with it.”

“You must be Tyrion Lannister.” Varys eventually submitted. “The Faceless Men _hate_ dragons. Some say they ushered in the Doom with their whispers,  punishing their old masters for making them mine too close to the gods.”

* ~*~*

“Jon – _Jon!_ ” Davos tried to catch Jon’s horse but the young Northern king rode out ahead toward the dragon only stopping when the great beast reared up and placed its clawed paw forward, bearing all its black fangs that filled a staggering jaw large enough to swallow his horse whole.

Jon clung onto the reigns as his horse shook its head and veered away, refusing to take another step. “Whoa...” he cooed, dismounting in a sweep of cape. He patted the side of its neck and left it to graze but the beast swung its head from side to side, keeping an eye on the dragon.

Davos dismounted a short distance away and loped over to his lord, clutching the parts of his body that protested. Jaqen remained with the horses, wary of the dragon and its silver queen.

“Your Grace – please – Jon...”

“S’all right,” Jon insisted. “And enough with the, ‘Your Grace’.”

_Drogon_ hissed at the two figures approaching but stopped short of openly attacking. He had spent his entire life around armies and no longer snapped at them without cause. The silver creature on the ground beneath his wing shifted, rolling onto her side.

Soft grass brushed across Daenerys’ face, tickling her skin. She rolled towards it, imagining the  _Dothraki_ grasslands where she and Drogo  rode bareback chasing the  dusk toward the mountains.  Her sun and stars and she, the moon.  Where did that leave her bear knight? Jorah was the earth beneath her hooves...

This is not  _Essos_ , she reminded herself,  and there was ash spread through the grass.

Daenerys sat up as  _Drogon’s_ wing peeled back, revealing the rolling grassland  littered with weed and a pair of men  traipsing towards her  weighed down with wolf fur and leather . They weren’t wearing sashes  or Lannister lions .  She stepped forward, keeping one hand on  _Drogon_ as she sized up the men. With a monster at her shoulder, she had no fear.  Even without her snarling dragon, she’d stood alone against many men and bettered them all.

“Let me do this, my Lord,” Davos whispered under his breath. “She is a queen. I am well used to their manner. Stannis was – _bristly_ and I hear her temper is as short as her stature.”

Jon gave a nod. Davos straightened his cloak and strode ahead, lifting his hand in the universal sign of peace. It was the first time that he had laid eyes on the Dragon Queen. The ravens sang songs of her from _Castle Black_ to _Oldtown_. She was not a savage horselord from the fringes of the world – she was her father’s daughter.  Violet eyes – reams of white hair braided past her waist. Yes, she was short but beside her towering charcoal dragon, what did a few inches matter?

“Your Grace, I believe.”

Her crimson cloak whipped over her shoulder, torn and burned. Wind whistled through its holes but not even the filth could dampen her royalty.

“I am Ser Davos Seaworth,” he began carefully, unsure of how much she knew of _Westeros_. “Hand of Jon Stark, King of the North, previously Commander of the Night’s Watch.  You may know him as Snow, or perhaps you do not know him at all.”

Daenerys’ gaze drifted over Davos’ shoulders to Jon Stark. He was shorter than she’d expected. “Stay where you are, Ser Davos.” She advised, as her dragon twitched. “I am Daenerys T-”

“Targaryen,” Davos nodded, finishing for her. “Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Princess of Dragonstone, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and of the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains - there was one more.”

“Mother of Dragons.”

“Ah of course.” How had he missed the beast at her arm? “Mother of Dragons.” Ser Davos bowed lower than necessary to the silver woman.

“Has the North heard the call and come to join the battle, Ser Davos?” She asked carefully.

“This?” Davos eyed the ruined Capital. “Not at all. A spot of awkward timing, I’m afraid. We are here ter beg the ear of whomever is left standin’. That would appear to be your gracious self.”

“The battle is not yet over.” As Daenerys finished, a piece of the outside wall snapped off and fell into the field with a hideous crash and cloud of white dust. The green flames of the Mad King’s wildfire ate the city alive from the inside throwing sparks a hundred feet into the sky.

“Is there somewhere we may speak?”

“We are speaking now, Ser Davos.”

“Wit. An unusual trait in a ruler. The birds say Tyrion Lannister serves as your Hand and Varys your eyes.”

“I have eyes, ears and hands of my own. My reign is not a series of appendages melted into a chair.”

Davos rethought his tact. Trading barbs with a dragon wasn’t helpful. “The King – Jon Snow – _Stark_ and I have come a long way to seek your council.”

Daenerys watched the lord stumble over his king’s title. Jorah had never once mistaken her name. No matter how little she had, Jorah _made_ her into a queen. Power, as she’d learned, was mostly a careful illusion – a piece of fabric at the end of a bannerman’s pole. This ‘Jon Snow’ was terrible at creating illusions with his matted fur and scarred armour plating, therefore _real power_ must reside in his title – or he’d be dead.

Unlike Davos, Jon made no effort of formality. He set his dark, Stark eyes on the Targaryen. His kin. The closest thing to a living relative that he had. Her features were pale and sharp where his were sculpted by his mother’s blood. The assassin wanted to call him a dragon but now he’d seen one in the flesh he understood that he was more of a wolf.

“Aunt...”

“ _You were meant to keep that ter yourself...”_ Davos hissed in Jon’s direction but found himself ignored.

“Nephew...” She replied, unfazed. “Neither of us had the good fortune of knowing your father. By all accounts Rhaegar was the best of our ancient house.” She pointed to the dragon sitting on the wall of _King’s Landing_. “I am named one of my dragons for  his memory. He is the softest of the three and sings beautifully.”

Jon dipped his head in acknowledgement but was careful not to bow. “Very few know of our connection. I wonder if we might keep that between ourselves for the moment, as Ser Davos has suggested. Politics in the North are…”

“As complex as they are here, I imagine,” she replied, with a burning city at her back. “I have been warned by my closest advisers that should you discover your parentage, as you have clearly done, you may raise a claim to the throne or others may do so on your behalf.” Best to ask him now while she had a dragon and he – two men. “Although I heard whispers that your ambitions lay further North...”

“I have no interest in crowns – North or South.” Jon agreed. “Which is what I have come all this way to discuss.”

“That is not entirely true. You call yourself ‘King’ and hide your Targaryen name because you know as well as I do that no honourable Northman could follow the Mad King’s grandson into war. The rebellious bastard of a greatly loved lord is a story Ser Davos can sell to desperate men. Do not look so worried, Jon _Snow_. You have written a song for yourself, as have we all. It does me no good to unpick yours but take care in lying to me. Liars I feed to my dragons.”

Jon was left to think on her warning while Daenerys shifted her attention to Davos’ weathered face. He looked as though he’d seen a storm brew along the horizon. Perhaps he had heard the terrible rumour of her brother’s fate. She was not above murdering kin. Eventually Daenerys stepped outside the protection of her dragon. She unhooked the embossed clasp that held her cloak together. As soon as it was free her cloak flew off, tumbling over the grass.

“Accept this gift,” she added, handing her dragon pin to the Stark king, “and take the road around to the South of the city. The remainder of my army is waiting on the banks of the _Blackwater Rush_. There’s a man that knows you  among their number, a brother of your Watch by name of-”

“Sam- _bloody_ -Tarly… He’s alive.”

“That’s the one. Give him this seal and tell him that I have sent you. They will offer you sanctuary and somewhere to stay until we can meet officially. The field of battle is on place to plan peace.”

Jon brushed his thumb over the dragon seal. Its three heads chased each other around the circle, devouring each other. “We will wait there for you.”

* ~*~*

Several rooms down inside the _Red Keep_ , Jorah found his answer. It started with a scuffle and cluster of screams – all of which were silenced by the thud of a sword. He stepped in front of the door and found the nearest wall carpeted in blood. It sprayed over the surface in a fan beneath which lay the body of a maester twitching with his torso semi-detached and all his insides spilled over the stone. The brute that dealt the butchering was so large that he struggled to turn around in the confined space. His armour grazed the wall. Helmet scraped the ceiling. Through its slits Jorah caught a pair of engorged red unblinking eyes.

_The Mountain_ .

Cersei’s loyal guard.

Jorah had not intended to face the monster alone. Only young fools sought battles for glory. He should know – he’d been one of them, parading around the stinking mud of tournament arenas, lapping up joyous screams. The finest young women in the kingdom threw flowers at his horse’s hooves and held coloured ribbons to the wind. Knight after knight met their doom on nothing more than a false promise. _‘_ _Glory,’_ warned his father, _‘is not earned on the end of a wooden sword. It is pried from terror.’_

There was plenty of terror to be had in the world. Jorah gripped the hilt of his frozen sword and backed silently away from the door. The Mountain followed with an ominous _thud – thud – thud_ of his oversized body and seized tendons struggling with the motion. His enormous form was stiff and stank like the marshes near _Harrenhal_. The rumours were true. Qyburn had made a creature of corpse. Jorah wondered what, if anything, was left of the man beneath.

With all the finesse of a lumbering rock, The Mountain dragged his oversized sword along the stone tiles with a shower of sparks. His gold cloak, feathered with false scales, shimmered in the torchlight.

Jorah steadied himself.

“All right, come on then… You ugly son of a bitch.” He taunted the creature. There was barely enough room to swing a sword so Jorah enticed him further. The Mountain staggered into the main hall and straightened to an impressive height. His thick armour was enough to bounce most swords and collapse a normal man to his knees under the weight. “I’ve got a surprise for you.” Jorah whispered, as _Snowflake_ glinted ominously in the half-light.

The Mountain’ s sword – which was a full foot longer than  normal – was raised and swung at Jorah’s neck.  It cut through the air with a  _whoosh_ that made the flames quiver. The moment it touched  _Snowflake’s_ edge the Mountain’s blade shattered with a shrill scream of metal.  Jorah immediately stepped forward, swiping  immediately at  T he Mountain’s chest where he landed a blow hard enough to dent the breast plate. The Mountain smacked  Jorah across the face with the handle of his ruined sword, throwing Jorah off and into the wall  where he and the fragments of  T he  Mountain’s ruined sword fell to the ground together.

Jorah coughed, expecting a mouthful of blood but nothing came of it. Instead he tumbled to the side, avoiding a fist that hit the wall so hard it cleaved away a layer of stone with a crash of thunder.

* ~*~*

Daenerys doubled over on the grass. Blood sprayed from her lips all over her clothes and onto Davos’ boots. Both men fell to their knees, reaching for the queen in unison.

“Your _Grace_...” Davos said, his gloved hand around her arm. It was difficult to get a grip with his shortened fingers but Jon had her other limb and held her plaited hair out of the way as she heaved  another mouthful of blood.

“It’s – _nothing_...” Daenerys  stammered, as she sat up and wiped her lips.

“Begging your pardon but-” But her clothes were red. The queen looked wild, like a fire-like in the chest of a volcano. Its smouldering heart.

The ground trembled. All eyes turned to the city. It was impossible to tell if the crumbling walls caused the shudder or if it was the shifting of bedrock tearing at the city’s feet – furious at the blood letting raging above.

“I must go,” Daenerys untangled herself from them and climbed onto _Drogon’s_ back. _Something is wrong._ Drogon made a bird-like call, twisting his head to check his mother was securely in her perch before he pawed at the ground and loped along it.

Davos and Jon watched her take to the air, circling before vanishing as a shadow into the thick smoke. Davos wiped the queen’s blood onto the grass.

“You say that _this_ is the future of Westeros?” Jon asked.

“So it would seem. So it would seem… I experienced a great many unusual things in the service of Stannis and the Red Woman. Not even I trusted my eyes half the time but I ain’t never seen a man or woman ride a dragon bareback into battle. If she says they are her children, I believe her.”

“You hate her more than anyone breathing.”

“The Targaryen girl? Barely know the child.”

“No.” Jon clarified. “The Red _Witch_.”

“Aye. She preys on men’s weakest parts and folds them to her will. For most men, that is their cocks.”

“And you?”

Davos looked off into the distance, watching the smoke toss and boil with licks of fire.

Jon understood. “What about me, Ser Davos? Which part of me would the Red Woman twist?”

“That is easy. Your honour – like every Stark before you. You are made fools by it. Stannis told me all about the crypt of dead Starks under Winterfell sent there by dedication to principle instead of sense. Me. I like ter be alive. When it’s done it’s done. No good stacking our bones in pits – it won’t make them a darn bit more honourable.”

“Lord Stark said that the dead protect us.”

“Is that your experience of the dead?”

Jon was silent as the cold blue eyes of the corpse army haunted his nightmares. At least they had, when he used to dream. He hadn’t slept or dreamed since his death.  It was all a waking nightmare now.  “ Fair enough.” Jon agreed, as Ja q en trotted up bringing their horses.

“See – _dragons_.” Ja qen nodded casually at the sky. “A man has warned you.”

“A man is a vague, murderous monk half the time,” Davos remarked, though not without humour. “I saw the queen looking at you. She remembers your face.”

“A man can change his face, if you prefer.”

“That – won’t be necessary...” Jon flinched. He didn’t like the idea of a different dead face. He was used to this one and sometimes, if he wasn’t paying attention, he could fool himself into think Jaqen was a normal man.

“Whose face is that?” Davos frowned.

“This face has no name.”

“What’s the difference between you and one of them necromancers from the far side of the world?”

Jaqen was almost amused. “A man asks, they take. That is why they are cursed creatures. You cannot steal from the gods. They guard their magic jealously.”

“I thought your kind only had one god?” Jon interrupted, as he mounted his horse.

“Sansa, Arya, Jon, Eddard, Lyanna, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Benjen – _Stark_. Many faces, one name.”

*~*~*

The next few blows,  T he Mountain missed – shredding stone tiles to powder. Jorah shuffled backwards with  _Snowflake_ rippling through the air – dancing in front of  his eyes . His other, larger sword remained sheathed at his hip.  Every now and then he heard it scrape the floor.

Suddenly a shudder ran through the heart of the  _Red Keep_ , shaking the walls and the floor. Iron torches fell  and exploded in  cinders  with pools of hot oil . One of them caught the edge of a tapestry turning the enormous hanging into a literal wall of fire. It tore away from its hangings and curled, hissing viciously in death.

T here was no time to linger. The Mountain stepped over the ruined tapestry  with flames licking up his legs and down the four steps to the second level of the hall where Jorah waited nervously.  One of his sleeves was torn from the fall earlier. He could see the tattoos showing through, darkening as his opponent approached.  He felt like he was back in the fighting pits of  _Meereen_ with a jeering crowd baying for his blood.  Death snapping at his ankles.

_Snowflake_ faced an  iron axe this time and, strong as it was, the ice magic could not shatter it. Jorah’s arms absorbed the full force of the blow which lifted him off his feet and sent him flying. He landed in a roll, tumbling twice with his second sword digging into his flesh then back onto his feet, _Snowflake_ raised. He didn’t see how this could end  in his favour. He’d had a few good swipes but The Mountain was closer to a beast than a warrior and he wasn’t entirely convinced a dead thing could die again. He eyed the room for something better and settled on a hefty iron chandelier dangling above. Before could make use of the iron nightmare by severing the rope holding it in place, The Mountain advanced pushing Jorah deeper into the room.

* ~*~*

“Did you see that? Over there – on the flats. Near the waterline.” Tycho pointed his oar at the muddy shore where something was writhing about in the filth. “An eel?”

Tomm e n picked up his pace, forcing his way through the calf-deep mud. Progress was slow and rudely interrupted by rotting pieces of flesh left by murderers and war. Half the missing names in the city found their graves upon the marsh. “It’s not an eel,” the king replied. “More like-” he tilted his head curiously before finishing his sentence. “A dragon.”

Ash snapped at the mud weighing down her limbs. She’d become stuck after swimming ashore – sinking into it which further smothered her wings making her too heavy to fly.

Tommen approached the creature that looked as though it had been birthed under the ground and crawled its way to the surface. It was the size of a cat. Thin boned with sharp features, particularly its face which ended in a pointed snout. The boy king reached into the mud and placed his hands under the belly of the dragon, lifting it out of the hole it had accidentally dug.

Its flesh felt like a snake but the scales were sharp and the tiny spines that littered its body, even sharper. Its belly was soft and he could feel its heart beating wildly and a warmth swelling in the throat area. Both back legs curled around Tommen’s arm while the dragon’s wings reached out so that it could grasp on to his shirt with its clawed knuckles. The creatures enormous eyes, born gold had now cleared to a shade of silver that left them as a pair of lonely moons with a reptilian slit straight down the centre.

“There you go...” Tommen knelt in the mud and released the dragon onto the edge where a wave crashed over it, washing away the silt. The dragon transformed in an instant to its beautiful crimson form, so dark and perfect it looked like a wound upon the earth wherever it sat. It pushed itself up with powerful limbs and snapped its mouth, tasting the air.

Tycho hung back, frightened of the creature.  He clutched his oar. “ No one mentioned the Targaryen had a  _fourth_ dragon,” he said.

“Maybe it is not hers.”

“ _Not hers…_ ” He repeated in amazement. “How many dragons do you think there are, dear boy? A few years ago there weren’t _any_ now there are _four_? Preposterous! A calamity for civilisation.”

“Five – more than likely,” Tommen corrected him. “There is another, larger dragon marauding around the North. A silver creature that crawled up out of Winterfell, nearly destroying it entirely. News came of it via the ravens.”

“You would be a fool to believe those stories.”

“I _do_ believe them,” Tommen assured the banker. “And so should you, if you value Truth’s weight. The people who saw it believe the creature to be one of the original dragons from the last great war in the realm. Silverwing. A monster by any stretch, large enough to make these beasts into pets.” Tommen pointed at the three shadows circling around the ruins of _King’s Landing_. The Capital was all but gone. The only thing left was a burning ruin.

_Ash_ wasn’t like the other dragons. She was a wilful thing and flapped around in the mud, exploring the terrain without fear. It flicked its tongue at a few crabs but was too slow to dig any of them out of their holes. Eventually Tycho crept back in step with the king as they headed towards the parting sea fog and  _Dragonstone_ beyond that.

“You best hope that it does not follow us,” Tycho added, as they walked. “This is the second time I have been in the presence of dragons in as many months and on _both_ occasions they laid waste to a city. Picture it, if you can, Your Grace, the Bank of Braavos without its roof and all the gilded walls of aeons past lay as rubble with a few broken bodies poking out from the mess. Oh yes, it is a terrible thing. Dragons are chaos and death and servitude buil t on fear. The Free Cities rebelled against the Valyrians for a good reason.”

There wasn’t any warning. Both men had their eyes on the endless stretch of mud, taking care where they placed their feet when the tiny red dragon launched itself into the air and latched onto the back of Tycho’s knee. Within a moment it had scurried up his pant and shirt climbing all the way to the horrified man’s shoulder where it began frantically pawing at his face. Tycho’s screams were gurgled by panic. He wailed and fussed, bending every which way to try and free himself of the unprovoked violence. Hot blood ran down his cheeks. There were tides of it making their way beside the veins on his paper-thin neck followed by a dreadful pull of skin as it fought to hold on while Tommen dragged it off and ended up with the creature squirming in his hold.

“What did you do to it?” Tommen demanded.

“What did I do _to it_? Look what it has gone and done _to me_!” Tycho screamed furiously, pulling his hands away from his face to see them coated in blood. “That bloody thing has gone and killed me!”

“Calm yourself!” The King demanded. “You’ll not die. You’ll not even scar.”

He would definitely scar.  _Ash’s_ claws had cut deep into his flesh, diving his face into two sides.

* ~*~*

“I may be hanged for saying it but there is something not quite right about that queen.” Ser Davos led his horse to the edge of a narrow stream. “Coughing up blood. Watched an uncle go that way. Months of it. Blood everywhere an’ not a scratch on the bugger.”

“I am hardly one to judge. I ‘ave holes in my chest. I should be dead.”

“Aye. You should. Twice o’er.” Davos replied, eyeing the Northern king. “You’re not though, are you? That witch put something in your veins an’ I’m not entirely sure we’re gonna like what comes o’it.”

Jon could not argue with that. He’d never felt particularly ‘alive’ since his death. There was every chance he wasn’t much better than one of those blue-eyed corpses wandering beyond  _The Wall_ . If he’d needed further proof, the assassin’s blade in the  _Riverlands_ settled the question. He turned to the  _Braavosi_ killer, who walked slightly out of step wit h his horse,  preferring to walk.

“And you,” Jon asked, “what did you make of the queen?”

Jaqen gave his horse a small tug, leading it to the stream. “A man thinks this  might well be the last fresh water we see.”

B oth Davos and Jon were left perplexed while the horses drank. The assassin turned to watch the  river of people fleeing the crumbling city. His eye was drawn to a small woman striding calmly through the hell, her hand on the hilt of a  tiny sword little better than a twig. A man would know that creature anywhere. A wolf among the sheep.

* ~*~*

Olenna stumbled away from the enormous door. The iron bolts shook a cloud of rust free accompanied by the steady  _boom – boom – boom_ of soldiers attempting to break through.

“Come away,” she tugged Margaery behind her.

The  circular room was near-pitch. As the inner, ancient castle it was built from black, oily rock with no windows. Everyone who touched the walls was left with a translucent slime on their skin that refused to wipe away.  _Evil_ . As though the building was dragged up from the depths of  _Blackwater Bay_ and left stinking in the sun before the rest of the  _Red Keep_ encased it. The foundations continued deep into the ground where they merged with the bedrock. Rumour whispered of skeletons buried there that never died, trapped in crypts where they clawed at the stone, hissing curses with bone lips.

M argaery unhooked one of the metal torches from the wall, holding it with her hand wrapped in cloth to make the heat bearable. She pulled away from her grandmother and  lifted the flame toward the door. Olenna watched the flame pick over her granddaughter’s features. There was nothing more fierce than a mother protecting their child.

The door buckled. The slab of wood shuffled out of its holds and crashed to the floor.

“Loras!”

Sweat and soot dripped off Loras, especially where his armour was scorched by the flames running rife through the city. His blond hair was curled tightly with the moisture, flecked with ash while traces of blood ran the entire length of his sword.

“Quickly. There are ships waiting.” Loras ushered them out of the room. “And quietly. Most of the Lannisters have fled but there are a few swords in the dark.”

The building shook. Outside the protective shell of the old black walls, they could hear the outer  _Keep_ trembling with smoke slinking through the corridors. Olenna nudged Margaery forward, covering her own face with a torn off piece of cloth to shield herself from the stench of burning flesh.

“What is _that_ wretched sound?” Olenna asked, as they staggered through the hallways, winding their way down the castle.

“The Targaryen girl’s dragons. They’re screaming.” Loras replied, to the horror of his family.

They used the lowest tunnels, wading through the seawater before emerging on the sandy strip that curled around the bay. The tide was creeping in and brought with it a deluge of bodies – wood and flesh. Once outside, Olenna stopped and lifted her gaze to the din. Clouds of smoke swept over the sun, leaving it a cold eye unable to look at the burning city. All three dragons had found a perch on the outer wall. They had their heads lifted toward the air, mouths open and shrill cries echoing over the water. Each one flapped their wings, sending the smoke into chaotic vortices, beautiful and horrific in equal measure. Olenna was not one to pray to the gods but even her, with decrepit limbs an inch from death, felt the faceless creatures of the cosmos shift in delight.

“There’s no time, grandmother!” Loras grabbed Olenna’s sleeve and pulled her over the sand toward a row boat.

“No wait – what about you?” Margaery asked, turning as the boat began to push away from the shore.

Loras was waist deep in the water, like the last hero facing the end. “There are people trapped in the city. I have to go.”

He did just that – wading to shore where he climbed the black steps and vanished into the smoke.

*~*~*

Jorah unhooked a spear from the stone wall. Its beautiful, polished tip looked ornament but it was a foot and a half of sharpened  _Valyrian_ steel, a relic from the  _Dance of the Dragons_ when would be kings fought each other on dragon-back. It  glistened menacingly – brandishing its intricate patterns that almost formed words across the surface. A giant, silver shark tooth, or so Jorah thought. He held it tucked under his left arm with  _Snowflake_ in his right.

The Mountain lumbered ever closer. An unstoppable progression of death. Those bloodshot eyes bulged under his helmet while pale flesh, almost blue, peeked out from the gaps in his armour. Jorah remembered the man before and could not decide whether this was an improvement. He was a monster, one way or the other. What man raped a woman after murdering her children? No man at all. Only the gods committed such  atrocities.

W here a Lannister soldier might taught,  T he Mountain offered nothing other than shuffling footsteps. Jorah shored his grip of the spear, leaned forward to brace his weight and held his nerv e.

The Mountain’s sword had the force of a horse at full flight. Jorah was a sturdy man but even he was trampled to the ground under the axe.

“Argh!” Jorah cried, as the curve edge of the axe found its way through his armour’s breast plate, slicing right down the middle of the embossed dancing bears. There it stuck, wedged in the steel. He’d prepared himself for the pain. Through its blinding agony, Jorah thrust the _Valyrian_ spear into  The Mountain’s stomach where it severed the rotting innards and emerged the other side with a _slop_ of debris. “ Get _off_!” Jorah used all his force to push  The Mountain backwards, leaving the undead in possession of the spear.

He was still alive – stumbling around impaled and seemingly unaffected by his severed spine.

Jorah  heard his own blood  spill down his armour and  drip onto the floor. There was more of it on the axe blade, running  along  the handle  to paint T he Mountain’ s hand as he lifted it above his head, preparing for another strike. Jorah was struck by the sight. Trapped watching those tiny congealed bubbles of his life running over the wood. He could fight this creature for five minutes or five years, trapped in this stone room and it would make no difference. How could  _anyone_ win against the undead? Death was the finish line  and he’d surpassed it . The best Jorah could hope to do was –

_Of course._

Jorah sheathed  _Snowflake_ and spun.  He took two strides and ducked under  The Mountain’s right flank before he could bring down another blow. There was a low stone doorway behind which Jorah took at a run. The stairs beyond  were steep, covered in grime and headed down into the sub levels of the  _Red Keep_ where there was little but darkness and smoke. The Mountain followed. Jorah could hear him – spear still in his chest and axe at the ready. He pursued with surprising speed not helped by Jorah’s open wounds.  _Perhaps there are limits to the blood magic_ , he thought to himself.  _Thank the gods._

There was no turning back from this plan. The hallways were so narrow Jorah would never make it back past The Mountain now. He committed.

Three more levels and he began to worry that half his blood was painted on the  _Keep’s_ floor. The world blurred. His hands clammed up. All the sound was sucked out of the air as the little light there was closed in on his vision. Jorah kept his focus on the hallway. The dragon skulls were first. They lined a wider part of the hallway, pushed into the shadows. He did not like to look at them. Dragons were infallible, magical creatures and here they were, dead and turned to bone like every other wretched thing in the world.

Left. Onto the black foundations where the stone never dried. The legendary  _Black Cells_ lay ahead. They were filled with the hopeless and yet they sat in silence. Waiting. Predators and madmen. Some, Jorah imagined, placed there by the Mad King himself.

* ~*~*

Choppy water overtook the row boat. Olenna clutched the edge, all her rings pressed against her bone. One of the Targaryen girl’s ships waited ahead. Its sails were unfurled but an anchor held its place in the water. They’d been spotted by the  _Unsullied_ who lowered a rope ladder in preparation that Olenna was not entirely convinced that she could climb. Mounting a ship from the water was uncivilised. In war the sick, young and old died first. Well,  _fuck that_ , Olenna refused to die in a bay of screaming souls. She’d made plans to pass into the next world with a view of the gardens in full bloom.

“You must go first,” Olenna announced sternly to Margaery. “You carry the future of our house in your belly. Never forget that. No matter what happens here or tomorrow _surviving_ is your priority. Do you understand?”

“Even if I have to crawl on my hands and knees to Highgarden, I will make it to her walls.” Margaery replied.

T he hand that pulled them on board belonged to the commander who had been watching the battle play out. “This one is Black Scale,” he said of himself, an impressive statue with his full battle armour. There was not a scratch on him. “You are Olenna Tyrell, friend of the Queen. Your granddaughter, Margaery Lannister-”

“Tyrell.” Margaery corrected immediately. “As agreed with the Targaryen Queen, I renounce my claim to the Iron Throne and submit to her rule, may it be a long and glorious one.” Margaery repeated the words her grandmother coached without the faintest air of irony, even as _King’s Landing_ and its throne turned to nothing.

The anchor was pulled in, groaning in pain.  _Blackwater Bay’s_ winds kicked up and the hull shifted against the waves.

“Whose ships are those?” Asked Olenna, lingering by the rail. There was a cluster of four ships, sails full and men raging at the remnants of the Lannister ships, sinking everything they touched.

“Those vessels belong to Lord Emmon.”

A rare moment of emotion washed over Olenna. “Ah yes. The ghost of Togarion the Terrible lives in him today.” Then, more quietly. “I watched his daughter strung up on that wall and her children fed to dogs. Had I been born a man I’d have taken a sword to Cersei that day but my sword is a pen and my strike, the wings of a raven.”

M argaery felt for her hand, weaving their fingers together as they watched the battle rage.

*~*~*

Loras screamed orders until his voice choked on the smoke and fled him entirely. Pirates, Tyrell, Dothraki, Unsullied, Lannister and civilians – eventually they all became one herd of frightened creatures. He managed to funnel them into channels, fleeing the burning parts of city and out into the open fields. The panic wore off after they exited the walls and led to a mass of people loitering in the field, staring at their home so Loras sent more men out into those fields to point them onto the  _King’s Road_ , sending them toward  _Highgarden_ with a horsemen riding ahead to ensure they made it. Survival was dependent on time and they had none of it to spare.

Many Lannister men made eyes at him as they passed, defeated and unarmed yet none raised their voice in challenge. The dragons had done what Cersei could not – broken their souls.

*~*~*

“That’s a terrible sound...” Gilly sat on the back of a wagon, Little Sam in her arms as _Rhaegal_ cried from his perch on the wall. He was nearest to them, mounted like a grotesque. She was used to the dragons singing but this was not a song. “What will happen to _Ash_?”

The wagon dipped noticeably as Sam sat beside her. “This is horrible. You’re not… Not upset?”

“Of course,” Gilly replied. “But you get used to it. The butchering. The terror. It becomes part of your life. One of my sisters used to say that the horror is like the cold, it leaves you numb.”

“You have a sister?”

Gilly turned her head, staring right at Sam.

“Oh – right...” Sam’s mind caught up. “How many?”

“Alive or dead?”

“I’m sorry, Gilly...”

She was confused. It might be impolite to pry about the dead in the South but in the far North, speaking of the dead was all that kept them alive. “Sixty-two. All dead.”

“All? I don’t-”

“The Queen received a raven from the Lord Commander. A ranging party travelled to _Craster’s Keep_. They expected to find my sisters and some of the Freefolk men holding the position but there was nothing. A snowed out building.”

“Well there, you see, they could be alive? Maybe they fled?”

Gilly shook her head. “ The Freefolk call them ‘bare bones’ – villages stripped of life. My sisters are dead. I only hope they do not know it.”

S am looked towards  _Blackwater Bay_ and the horizon that curved beyond the ships. “ We could still go to the Summer Isles,” he said wistfully. “Wait out the storm. Teach Little Sam how to swim.”

“I love you but please, stop asking to go on more boats. You are terrible on boats.”

Sam only heard the first part. “You  _love_ me?”

Now Gilly was even more perplexed. “Obviously.”

Sam nodded, not quite believing. “Obviously.” He repeated. “ Is that wall melting?”

Gilly watched the stone soften and drip into the water like raw metal heated in a forge. “Yes.”

He nodded, ready to accept more and more alarming realities as time went on. He’d seen dead men and dragons – how long, he wondered, would it be before the gods themselves came out of the ground to look upon the hell they’d waged? “Oh _my_ bloody oath!” Sam slipped off the cart and stumbled forward, eyes set on the left curve of the bank where three horses strode out of the river.

The filthy water rushed off the underside of the horses before their hooves sank into the mud. There were hundreds of soldiers pressed into the woods nearby, protected by the pines and ferns. Jon kept the reins on his horse taught while Jaqen and Davos rode close, shouldering him.

“Who are all these people?” Jon asked.

“The Targaryen queen has kept some of her army back from the fight,” Davos replied. “Impossible to tell how many. The forest goes back a long way. Is that the fella you’re looking for?” Davos nodded at the rotund creature stumbling through the smoke towards them, waving frantically.

For the first time in many months, Jon’s features softened and a smile crept into them. Even his eyes glittered. Jon dismounted his horse and strode forth, arms open as Sam stepped into them and pressed himself against Jon’s cold armour.

Davos grinned and looked away. There were few enough friends in the world.

“Sam...” Jon drawled out his friend’s name. “Whatever are you doing here? I thought you’d be in the Citadel.” Where nothing could come for him. Jon wanted Sam safe with his books – as he should be. Not traipsing around the fields of war.

“I was there all right,” Sam assured him, finally stepping back. “But things became – complicated.”

“You are not a maester, then?”

“Technically? No.” And he wasn’t sure he wanted to be one any more, having met more than his fair share of them. “There was another one of those bloody dead things kept in a vault under the citadel,” he continued, lowering his voice. “It was _old_ Jon, older than the ones we saw in the North. I think it’s been there since the last war. I don’t think they _ever_ die.”

Jon was more interested in how Sam was. “You’re alive though. And Gilly. And the child?”

Sam nodded. “They’re over there. But _Jon_. This is the queen’s army. You’re a rival king from the North. I’m not sure you should be here. Not like this. Not without formal terms. She’s no Cersei but that isn’t saying much.”

“Sam. I have already met the queen. She flew down onto the fields outside King’s Landing on one of her dragons. It was her that asked me to come here and meet with you.” He held out the dragon pin plucked from the queen’s cloak.

Sam remained wary. “Even so...”

“We have come a long way and there is much to tell you. Please, is there somewhere we might sit?” Before they fell. Davos was leaning over on his horse. With the warmer climate came the defrosting of his pain. Even Jaqen had a veil of death about him, thinner than a ghost with gaunt cheeks and bones that threatened to pierce through the false face he wore.

Sam took a final look at the crumbling city. The war for the capital was over but the fighting continued. He wasn’t doing anyone any good watching from the flanks. “Before we do, you should know. There’s a Red witch here. _Not_ that one.” Sam quickly said, as Davos shifted dangerously behind. “She’s not even a true Red Priestess – she’s from Asshai. Quaithe. Her faith is that of the Church of Starry Wisdom and from what I’ve seen, she shares magic with the Targaryen queen. You _must_ be careful, Jon. This is not another conquering warlord. There’s a lot of talk among the men. The superstitious among them consider her a god.”

*~*~*

Sam organised for their horses to be left with the _Unsullied_ who brushed them down and fed them bags of grain. Jaqen took himself to the edge of the river where he bathed in the muddy waters, whispering enchantments to his faceless god, lurking under the surface. Davos, Jon and Sam moved toward _Blackwater Bay_ where they sat on the huge black rocks, flung there at random by the throat of an ancient mountain. Their surfaces glittered with chips of obsidian and veins of white quartz. Sam ambled over a few of the giants then tucked himself down in the shade. Beneath, _Blackwater Bay_ crashed against the rocks, flinging salt spray at the tides of smoke. On a clear day you could see _Dragonstone_. Today the masts of a hundred ships poked out from the thick smoke like dead trees in a fog-choked swamp with the occasional lick of flame.

“I remember you, Tarly.” Ser Davos positioned himself painfully on a rock. “You are nothing like your father.”

“I’ve not heard any news of them.”

“Nor have we.” Davos replied. “Ravens are not finding their way though several parts of the North. The starving are shooting them down and roasting them over their fires.”

“They’re _eating_ the ravens?”

“Aye. Eating the ravens.” Davos nodded. “And whatever else comes by. Horses. Rats. Other men…”

“Bolton’s war has left the Northern lands unprepared for Winter. The armies used the stores for their campaigns now there is nothing. Thousands are on their way to The Wall.”

“That’s a good thing though, isn’ it?” Sam perked up. “You were always trying to find men.”

“Feeding and training them is more difficult. Winterfell is sending everything they can. We’ve come to implore this Dragon queen for supplies.”

“And why would she agree to that?”

Jon explained their family ties, to which Sam merely shook his head. “She murdered her own brother, you know. The Dothraki sing songs about the night a golden shower crowned the white haired prince. The queen had her horselord husband poured molten gold over his head and boiled his brain as entertainment. You are a nephew she has never met...”

“Tarly, if I may.” Davos spoke up. “This queen romanticises Jon’s father. She named one of them beasts after him. Irrational sentiment is nothing to sniff at. I’ve seen it coax otherwise wise leaders into terrible mistakes.”

“You might be in luck. Daenerys Targaryen has a fascination with the North. Her dragon flew off course and took her via the Wall. She witnessed the Wildlings storm Bear Island.”

“That is not common knowledge...”

“No. I imagine not.” Sam replied. “Hundreds died and when the queen came back to us, she started talking about the real war – the great war. I don’t know what it is about bloody Targaryens but they seem to think they’re chosen by the gods. The celestial pits of Meereen, Tyrion calls it. She _intends_ to go North. There’s a Mormont whispering tales of snow and ice in her ear.”

Davos sighed. “These days everyone thinks they’re the chosen one. They end up without a head.”

Sam shook his head. “Not this time. I watched her walk out of the burning ruins of Summerhall. Both of them. The Mormont too. I was _there_ when she stuck an ancient sword into a tree and watched it catch alight with screaming flame and one of those blue-eyed things staring out from them. She _scares_ me.”

“ _This one_ scares me.” Davos nodded at Jon. “He died again. Dead as those raven corpses. I tried to bury him but he climbed right out of the cold earth.”

Sam turned pale. “None of this is right.”

“Of course not. Nothing is right in war.” Davos assured him.

Silence fell over the three men as they contemplated the rolling waves. The sun had scooped its way through the zenith and now began its tumble toward the West, setting behind them so that the shadow of the cliffs crept over the water. The tide was climbing up the rocks, scaring the red crabs back into their holes while clumps of kelp marooned in crevices.

“Are you certain one of those Whitewalkers was fighting South of The Wall?” Jon asked.

Sam nodded. “It attacked the queen’s caravan. Killed a dozen men. The queen herself killed it.”

“How?” Jon asked.

“The thing went for her throat. The moment it touched her skin it shattered into snow. _Magic._ I’m telling you.”

Davos was deeply concerned. “I thought the magic in The Wall stopped those things from getting South?”

“That does not mean they can’t fight if they get past it.” Jon said quietly. He’d fought wights inside _Castle Black_. “Winter is coming that means the Bay of Seals and Bay of Ice are both going to freeze over. When that happens, there’s no reason they can’t walk right around the edges of The Wall without having to go over it. They’re already amassing at the borders.” Jon flinched as another wall came down in the city. It enraged him. “This is _waste_. All this death.”

Sam closed his eyes, listening to the ruin mixed with the endless sigh of the water. There were times when he thought he could hear the moon pull its way into the sky and the breath of Winter hissing softly over the world. “This was not the queen’s plan.” He replied quietly. “Everything was in place for a bloodless takeover before… Before the wildfire caught beneath the city.”

“There are hundreds of barrels of this wildfire on its way to the North,” said Jon. “Commander Thorne has men transporting it to the forts along The Wall. He is going to rain all of hell down upon the army of the dead.” _Maybe it would be enough_ , Jon thought. If it could level a city perhaps it could destroy death.

“Who is making it – the citadel?” Sam asked. Jon nodded. “Your supplies are dependent on the maesters. I hope you bought them with coin rather than good will.”

“The gold from the siege at the Dreadfort.”

Sam watched the gulls cawing at the smoke. “I failed you. I went to the citadel to find information to defeat the Whitewalkers and all I found was a drunk grandmaester, a dragon queen and a priestess from Asshai. There were more questions than answers. All they speak of are prophecies, what good are those? And this...” Sam pulled out the small, gold bound horn from his robes. A relic from the snow at the _Fist of the First Men_. “Marwyn told me to bury it and let time hide it away.” Sam shook his head. “He was terrified of it.” It was such an unassuming thing. Light and fragile. “I couldn’t leave it at Oldtown.”

It was Davos who recoiled at the sight of the horn. “I know what that is. Well, I know what it could be. I’ve shared company with a lot of pirates in my time and there ain’t nothing a pirate likes more than a good piece of treasure. Horns are the rarest. They sell them in the far ports of the East. The Valyrians used to use them to call their dragons. Dragonbinders… A few remain, washing around the fringes of the world.”

“And what is the other?”

“That’s the thing. There’s only one other sort of horn but it’s been lost ter the world since before the pirates began treading the seas. The Horn of Winter. A relic of the first war.” Davos turned to Jon. “You’d have heard of it, in nursery stories.”

“Mance Rayder was looking for a horn in the snows.” Jon replied. “All he found was a war horn from the First Men. A great big thing that was burned in the flames. If that is what Marwyn says it is then he is _right_ , we should throw it into the sea.” Jon reached for the horn, Sam recoiled. “Sam, the Horn of Winter brings down The Wall. Only the Night’s King would want that therefore it is a tool for darkness.”

Sam shook his head. “Wait – that does not make any sense. Why would the First Men create a thing like that? What reason could they have for bringing down The Wall? There’s something about it, Jon, something else. I was _meant_ to find that horn in the snow, along with the dragonglass. Whomever buried that cache was _fighting_ against the Whitewalkers. They buried those things in a Night’s Watch cloak where they hoped they’d be found. We can’t just – toss it into the sea without first knowing what it does.”

Jon and Davos were uneasy about it. “All right, Sam.” Jon finally relented. “But for the sake of argument, do not tell anyone else that you have it. No one. Make sure it dies with you.”

*~*~*

The unmarked doors of the _Black Cells_ faded into darkness. Jorah had no way of telling how many rooms were embedded in the walls of the _Red Keep_ , only that they numbered in the dozens, possibly a hundred. The dead were left to rot and fresh men placed in their hold. The bones in some piled high with rats dragging them into nests while they gnawed away the last of the flesh.

Eventually Jorah found what he was looking for – an open cell with its door gaping ominously at the hallway. With a heavy breath, he stepped over the threshold into the room. Akin to a cave, the walls were malformed, breathed rather than built with thick seams of dragonglass wedged between the oily stone. There were no torches at all – only bedrock and a few scraps of hay pushed to the sides. Jorah kept his eyes away from the edges of the room and focused on the door and the faint flicker of light.

The Mountain ambled along, stopping only to remove the spear from his chest. He brandished that instead of his axe, pointing the _Valyrian_ tip into the cell first. Jorah made himself visible, taunting the brute to follow him into the room. As he’d hoped, there wasn’t much of a brain left in the corpse. He stumbled in, unaware of the trap Jorah had laid.

Jorah ducked under the first lunge from The Mountain’s spear – sliding across the stone with his swords scraping against the surface. Then he rolled, ignoring the stab of pain as he pushed back onto his feet. The Mountain reeled around and made for him again but Jorah backtracked, skirting straight through the open door which he immediately slammed shut in The Mountain’s face.

...no keys.

No fucking keys…

Jorah was forced to hold the latch shut with brute force as The Mountain rammed his body again and again against the door. The cell would hold the monster but only so long as he kept pressure on the lock.

“This might come in handy...” A pirate slinked along the corridor with a circular ring of keys dangling from his hand.

“Bloody hell, I thought you were dead!” Jorah exclaimed. He never thought he’d be pleased to see Daario Naharis wander in but he _was_. He was _fucking thrilled_.

Daario slid one of the crude iron keys into the lock and turned it. Both men relaxed. The Mountain was trapped. “Hideous thing,” Daario added, nodding at The Mountain. “Did you see what he made of the noblemen upstairs?”

All Jorah did was nod in reply – exhausted.

“Hell of a scrap, by the looks.” Daario added, eyeing the shattered armour.

“The rest?”

“Buggered off or bent the knee, so to speak.” Daario replied. “Once those dragons got a go on, most people ran. The smart ones, anyway.”

“The King? Cersei?”

Daario shrugged. “How do I know?” He lied. “Fucking mess, isn’t it? Will take us days to find out what happened. Come on. We’re not going to come across the answer to anything down in the dungeon.”

He had a point but Jorah needed to take another minute to catch his breath. As he was about to continue, the ground beneath the _Red Keep_ shifted. Daario and Jorah eyed each other.

“Is it _meant_ to do that?” Asked Daario.

Jorah shook his head.

“Mmm didn’t think so. Perhaps the gods really are coming out from beneath the sea.”

*~*~*

Quaithe laid her hands on the black rock at the edge of the cliff. There was fire growing beneath, swirling like rivers only made of burning stone. They pushed against the cracks in the ground, searching for weakness. Magic called to it – tempting its fury. In _Valyria_ the dragonlords burrowed too deep into the tempestuous mountains. They revelled in the violence of the flames and it had consumed them. She watched the final night replay in her dreams. The jagged mountain peaks quivering like pine needles then all at once their ashen sides slid away and from their throats coughed all the manic chaos of the Red God.

Her gaze lifted. Across the water, peaking out above the thick band of smoke was the tip of a black mountain.

*~*~*

Gilly laid Little Sam down in the shade of the pines where he slept on an old piece of heshen cloth. Darkstar followed, tying his horse to a nearby tree where it dipped its head and tugged at the long, sweet grass among the white flowers. Here, away from the nightmare, it was almost possible to pretend the world was at peace.

“Why do you follow me?” Gilly asked, as Darkstar wandered through the trees, never more than a few steps away.

He was a quiet sort of creature and took his time before replying. “A woman should not be alone on the edge of war.” He replied. “Desperate people would not think twice before tearing the clothes from your back and the shoes off your feet.”

Gilly brushed Little Sam’s soft hair from his forehead. “Did Sam ask you to?” He did not reply. “You look like the queen,” she continued, if only to break the silence. “Or do all Dornish look like you?”

“I am not Dornish,” he laid against one of the larger pines. Its mottled bark pressed against his back now that he’d removed most of his armour. “The Daynes are far older.”

“Like the First Men?”

He nodded. “Like the First Men but older still.” Wildlings were meant to be simple people, uninterested in anything but hunting and fucking. Basket weaving and skinning bears were thought to be the limit of their talents but Gilly had taught herself to read and write and showed a scholarly interest in the world. Indeed, she was not so different to Arianne. “Here,” he began, moving over to kneel beside her. He laid his hand on the pine needles and brushed them away to reveal the bare earth. Then he took a stick and drew a crude map of the world. “This is _Westeros_ , where we are. The North – _Essos_ and the great Southern Land.”

Gilly pointed to the tiny place beyond the wall where the ruins of _Craster’s Keep_ lay. “Home.”

Darkstar nodded, then drew in the line of _The Wall_. “The Daynes come from Starfall which, I believe, you have been. Here is Valyria, the original land of the Targaryens. A very, very, very long time ago all of this land,” he traced a circle that ran from _Asshai_ to the edge of _Dorne_ then up, all the way to _The Shivering Sea_ and right down past the _Summer Isles_ , “belonged to one great kingdom. They called it, ‘The Empire of the Dawn’.”

“Like the name of your house’s sword?”

Darkstar smirked. She was cleverer than most. “The kings and queens of this empire had long, white hair – purple eyes and silver skin. They rode dragons along the hills of Asshai and conquered nearly the entire world. Their cities were bigger than any living soul could imagine. They were gods – as close as men could be to them.”

“What happened to them?”

“They fought a war against death,” he replied.

“And lost...”

“No – they won but when the fighting was done, there were so few people left that they scattered into tribes and their empire fell apart. They travelled the oceans. Some, rumour has, landed in Valyria. Others made it as far as Starfall… So, if the tales are to be believed, the queen and I are ancient cousins.”

“Is that what’s going to happen to us – if we fight the Night King?”

“Only if we live. Chances are, this is the last war. We are a poor imitation of our past, Gilly. This battle is played, over and over, each time edging us closer to the end.”

She was quiet for a while, simply holding Little Sam’s tiny hand in hers. It seemed cruel that he be born into a world at its end. What was the point of life if it could not outlive the Winter? “Sam says that if we read enough of the old texts we’ll find the answer to defeating the army of the dead. That’s why we went to the citadel in the first place.”

“And what do _you_ think?” He asked, quite seriously.

“That we should spend less time reading about ancient conquests and more time preparing for the war. Each time it has been fought on different fronts – with different solutions. We have to find our own way through if we have any chance of surviving.”


	89. Nightfall

 

 

###  **EASTWATCH BY THE SEA – THE WALL**

It was night when the row boat crashed upon the rocks. Wooden boards splintered at the touch of volcanic innards. Oars splashed into the black sea, rubbing up against ice bergs which suffocated the horizon. The moon hung low – a solitary light at half-strength casting a pale halo over the frost where spinifex snapped in the wind.

Above everything loomed _The Wall_. Its ice blue even at night, glowing faintly from within. The slosh of water against the shore dominated, interrupted by snow tumbling out of the air. It smashed on the rock like glass.

Across the _Bay of Seals_ , _Skargosi_ fires dotted the island. Tiny pinpricks of light with trails of smoke wandering the sky. To the left stretched the peninsula, torn apart by marauding sheets of ice that had snapped off _The Wall_ on their right or journeyed in through the channel from glaciers lining the _Lands of Always Winter_. Ahead lay endless snowdrifts. _Mole’s Town_ glowed dimly like a lantern in the forest barely raising a challenge to the starlight. The tail of the red comet drifted further North, entirely hidden by _The Wall_. They’d followed it across _The Shivering Sea_ and now it had been sucked from the sky, robbing them of hope.

Lorath cursed the freezing stone beneath his hands as he dragged himself away from the hungry tide. His breath turned to snow while numb limbs clumsily grabbed onto a rope and pulled the prow of the boat ashore. Others helped – falling out into the water. More made landfall either side. Dozens, abandoning the wounded ships they’d left moored in the open water. _Eastwatch’s_ jetty, once used for supplies, stretched deep into the bay. It was barely more than a skeleton with pieces missing and entire segments snatched away by passing bergs. Its presence taunted the remainder of Bu Gai’s fleet who had to make do with the uneven beach.

Wordlessly, hands went out. Legs straddled boats. Boots slid on black ice. Oars washed up. Lorath pried the prince from the back of the boat and with both hands helped him onto _Westerosi_ soil. Many of the warriors around them were bloodied, wearing frozen clothes. More were walking dead, numbed by the cold and unable to feel their mortal wounds.

“Eastwatch.” Lorath pointed to the shadow at the base of _The Wall_. The monstrosity clawed up the ice, grown like a vine meandering for a foothold. Once it had been a feat of engineering but now, with _The Wall_ in a state of collapse where it met the water, it looked like a metaphor for the Winter to come.

Bu Gai was wrapped in furs and cuts of leather held together by coarse rope. His skin had turned grey from the sickness living in his wound yet there was strength returning to his limbs. Unholy life taking hold of the flesh. He shouted orders at the night, hastening the survivors onto land. They dragged their boats right out of the rock and moored them on the flat, stabbing spikes into the frozen ground.

The majority of Bu Gai’s people remained aboard the fleet, watching the procession of lantern-light edge toward the castle. What began as four-hundred thousand had thinned to half that. Still, at the cusp of the world that was a lot of mouths to feed and they immediately turned their eye on _Skagos_ and its frozen forests.

Lorath led the landing party of fifty men along the water. A solitary ship sat locked by ice, hemmed in on all sides by glacial drifts. Closer to _The Wall_ , another called _Talon_ was half-sunk in the shallow water with a few sad shreds of grey flapping like flesh. A few more masts stuck out from the waves like headstones. Lorath listened to the anguished snap of their ruined sails as though they were screaming.

Enormous, green-backed crabs with orange ‘V’s scuttled between the rocks underfoot. The men eyed them hungrily. A lone wolf kept her distance. Gulls cawed at each other. Winter rabbits ducked into holes dug before the ground froze. Lorath kept watch over them all, writing them into his memory. He’d never set foot on a land brimmed with mourn – terror _yes_ but not resigned to its fate.

“Bastard-bugger- _shit!_ ” Lorath scared himself half to death, stumbling over a corpse buried to its waist in the snow. With a face full of snow, Lorath turned his head to the horrific obstacle. Old Wyllis’ bones kept guard near the entrance to _Eastwatch_ , empty sockets watching the world. His maester’s chain caught the moonlight. Snowflakes bounced off the metal. Perfectly preserved, he might be alive save for the eyes which the crows had picked clean.

_Eastwatch_ was held together by ice. Most of the stone was encased by several feet of it – angled away from the water in strange shapes sculpted by the waves and wind where the sea-spray  froze mid-break.  Gales roared through these tunnels sending a terrible song into the endless twilight. Further South, the difference between Summer and Winter was a dusting of snow but in the North,  _the far North_ , the Winter killed the sun, pushing it under the horizon until it became a nomadic eye occasionally winking at the world.

There were no lifts to scale  _The Wall_ .  Instead steps had been cut into the ice interspersed with ladders made of ghost-wood  that shone like threads  from a spider’s web.

D efences around  _Eastwatch_ were almost non existent. Having become the Northern-most trade port during the Long Summer, it had forgotten its true purpose and relaxed into the lull of commerce. Now its courtyard was empty. The make-shift market stalls that lined the entrance had been dismantled and burned for warmth leaving abandoned pits of charcoal.

“Looting, not war...” Lorath muttered to himself. No one else understand him. “Abandoned – uh – _empty_ ,” he tried to gesture at the castle, hoping Bu Gai followed his patchy logic and confusing hand signals.

Indeed it was a shell. Inside they found only the most worthless  items strewn over bare basalt floors but the solid walls were enough of a comfort to the men who’d had their fill of open seas  and winds that tore through their bones . Fires were lit. Provisions brought ashore and the most vulnerable transported to the many empty rooms  crammed into the castle’s three towers. For the first time in years,  _Eastwatch_ took a shaky breath and rustled snow from its feathers.

L orath climbed to the highest turret. Closest to the sea it petered right on the edge of the shore. There were no cliffs this far North. Instead the water lapped along a shallow beach of black stones and, on the highest tides, the moon dragged them onto the frozen moors where they drowned the world in salt.  White lines were left all through the lower floor of the castle, marking these king tides. The highest as tall as a man.

F rom the ruined outpost, Lorath had an intimate view of  _The Wall_ . What appeared a formidable barrier from afar was actually riddled with deterioration and fatigue from centuries of weathering. Long  S ummers had partially melted the outer shell letting in deposits of salt. Sudden, short  W inters expanded hairline fractures which the sea instantly penetrated turning those cracks into enormous seams. The worst delved all the way to  _The Wall’s_ foundation where gravity took over, tugging the severed towers of ice into the  _Bay of Seals_ . At least three more  columns of ice leaned toward the water, ready to go. Lorath heard them groan.

He stepped backwards and turned his attention to a line of lights along the top of  _The Wall_ , approaching from the  W est. There was a slight curve in the ice that left them visible for a few hours.  He tried explaining to Bu Gai but the foreign prince was too ill to sit and lay among a bed of seal-fur and dried weed, muttering ancient enchantments while his witches kept the fire stoked.  His strength came and went. Tomorrow he might fight a war or perish with a whimper. It was impossible to tell.

Lorath  returned to the line of boats lashed together on the moor, taking a seat in one of them. The rest of the fleet waited. They couldn’t  remain marooned on board. A few savage fishermen  on  _Skagos_ was far from a deterrent. The gnarled atoll contained enough wood and food to keep them alive for several months.

It took three days for the lights along  _The Wall_ to appear above  _Eastwatch_ . Lorath and a dozen ship builders did their best to repair the scaffolding that linked the platforms of ice cut directly into the surface. Some of the alcoves ran several metres deep and contained stores of weapons – swords, quivers and a few  nine-foot spears all frozen into the surface. At the very top was the first of several ‘ C rows’ nests’ made by the  _Night’s Watch_ . Fortified, thatched huts, they’d hung on against the elements  with a view of  _Haunted Forest._ It was thickest where it met the  _Bay of Seals_ – near impenetrable. Like everything else, the trees slept – waiting out the night.

Lorath and his builders  set up camp inside one  of the thatch structures , braving the darkness and constant howl of wind while they waited for the  owners of the  lights to creep closer.  An hour before  the false- dawn, the lights became a shuffle of boots.

* ~*~*

Dacey raised her hand. The party stopped. Tormund lifted his torch a fraction higher sending its glow over the partially collapsed structure ahead.  Its roof leaned perilously toward the edge of  _The Wall_ where a decent wind might knock it free.  Either side, the world gaped – twin expanses of ice. Behind the hold lay the  _Bay of Seals_ and a pink prick of light where the sun intended to emerge for a few hours.

“What do yer think?” Tormund hissed under his beard, nearly a foot taller than the rest. “Thieves an’ the like?”

“There’s definitely someone in there,” Dacey agreed, tilting her head slightly to change the play of shadows. “Crows, perhaps – some of your lot?”

“Might be,” Tormund admitted. “Might be fisher-folk from that island, there.” He pointed towards _Skagos_. “Oh aye, those ships.”

The rising light over the bay revealed a  substantial  fleet, its masts poking out from the mist.  They scattered the morning hue like a fever dream full of lies and sea-born curses. “A fleet. Wildlings and Crows don’t have a handful of ships between them. Stannis?”

“His ships are at the bottom of the sea,” Tormund replied. “The rest went South to bugger knows where.”

“Fine,” Dacey had no answer for the sight before them. “Shall we introduce ourselves?”

They kept their weapons low, sword tips hovering above the ic y path . As they approached the structure a man emerged. Tall  with  a thin  ginger beard and eyes as green as the  _Jade Sea_ . He’d been starved to the bone, burned and cut. Bruises circled both his eyes while necklaces of bone and shell rustled over his fu r clothing . The man brandished a fishing spear with three terrifying prongs that smelled of  _Fleabottom’s_ worst pits .  He was the first to raise his hand in greeting, lowering his spear.

“Morning,” Dacey began casually, “we come from Castle Black. Who are you?”

The man’s face broke into an enormous grin, his teeth whiter than the fading stars. “ You speak the Common Tongue!” He replied, as though he’d stumbled upon the greatest treasure in the  _Seven Kingdoms_ .

“Aye, we do.”

“Not well but _enough_.”  He shook his head in joyous disbelief. “A man has waited many months to hear those words. Lorath,” he added, introducing himself.

“The island above Norvos?”

“No. That is what _they_ call me,”  he pointed to the faces in the hold behind. “I am not here alone.” Lorath motioned for the others to join him. “You may have noticed the ships in the bay. If you come from Castle Black that must make you Night’s Watch – though I did not realise they counted women among their number.”

“That lot are,” Dacey nodded over her shoulder. “This is Tormund, he is king of the Wildlings.”

“And you?”

“I am a Mormont.”

“A mix of fur and feather, then,” Lorath replied. “There are a great many things that must be said but perhaps we could retire to the castle?”

Tormund shook his head. Dacey nodded. “No,” she insisted, “let’s talk a little more out here.”  Where the narrow path along  _The Wall_ nullified the travellers’ numbers.

*~*~*

Tormund could not drag his eyes away from the egg-shaped heads. Normally bald, the men from Pol Qo’s camp had allowed their hair to grow thick and long. They wrapped coloured ties around them as either decoration or rank. They were short too but strong with strange tattoos on their faces  in the shape of demons.

“These men are the Jogos Nai, from East of the Bone Mountains. They, along with hundreds of scattered tribes were chased from their homes by monsters.”

“Monsters?” Tormund asked.

“Demons. Undead… Whatever you wish to name them. No one knows exactly what they are but they came out of the Grey Waste. Everything they touched became one of them. Horse. Rabbit. Man. Their ranks are full of rotting flesh. Pol Qo – that is, the horselord king, marched his people all the way to the banks of the Bleeding Sea where the Mountains of the Morn erode into sand. He used one of the Black Forts as protection.”

“You mean to say,” said Dacey, “that _all_ the nomads of the plains ran to the edge of the world?”

“No only the nomads. Yi Ti was gutted and Yin destroyed. Their prince, Bu Gai travels with us but he is grave along with many of our number. His people travelled West instead, better suited to the journey overland.”

The idea that these two groups of savage people were willing to trade leaders left her unsettled. It would be like the Dornish accepting the Salt Crown as their sovereign. “How does an army from the  E ast end up at The Wall?”

“We crossed paths with a dragon,” Lorath replied. “A silver queen and a bear knight, _like you_.”

Dacey’s breath caught. “Jorah Mormont...”

“The same. They flew in on the back of a black dragon. The Targaryen girl dreamed our futures and saw our end in the fire. _Go North_ , she said _, or die_. So here we are,  North in this frightful, frozen hell.”

“You mentioned two parties, where is the other?”

“Headed to Westwatch.”

Tormund leaned close to Dacey, whispering, “I thought the dragon girl was after a sword-throne?”

“Sh...” Dacey waved him off. “We’d like to speak with this prince, Bu Gai.”

*~*~*

The smell of rotting flesh collected in the room, trapped by stone walls and thick pine doors. Bu Gai  was kept on the ground floor, tucked away in a room that backed directly onto the ice. Its cold ebbed through the stone causing the warmer air to condense and drip down the surface – crying. A single, struggling vine grew along the stone with a couple of sad leaves. A winter rose with no one to bloom for.

Lorath stopped Dacey and Tormund outside the door. “A man will go first, then when I say – enter.”

“Do all East-pricks talk like tha’?” Asked Tormund, once they were alone.

“People from Lorath are a little odd. Who knows if it is religion or culture but they talk of themselves as if they’re not quite present.”

“An’ they make lords an’ ladies learn these things?”

“We learn the name of every city in the world and every house in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Nothin’ of the lands beyond The Wall.”

“Bears know a little more than most, except perhaps the Starks.”

“Wolf cunts.”

“No argument there.”

Dacey waited patiently. Tormund said nothing further. He’d been scouting the men inside the castle. The Crows they’d brought with them had been dispersed to assess the physical state of _Eastwatch_.  They were viewed with equal curiosity. Some of the _Jogos Nai_ called them _ghosts_ others took to following them, conspiring gods know what.

Eventually Lorath beckoned. Dacey paused  in the doorway, covering her nose from the odd stench that permeated everything . Lorath  withdrew to lay against the left-hand wall beside the vine,  giving the others some space . A bed of straw and fur had been fashioned opposite where a man  reclined , propped up by cloth pillows. Bu Gai was nothing like the cone-headed men. He was tall, bronze-skinned with eyes that appeared to shed glowing tears  like the edge of the cursed tide . The only evidence of his regal status were the jewels pinned to his flesh.

“He does not speak the Common Tongue,” Lorath warned, “but if you are patient, a man has a basic sort of communication.”

“There’s something wrong with him...” Dacey asked.

“One of the dead creatures bit him on the eve of Yin’s destruction. A man does not like to guess but probably this will kill him. He is the last of his line. No more jewelled Emperors. The final tombstone of the glorious empire. Strange, that he should die in a foreign land.”

Dacey knelt on the stone beside the prince while Tormund kept one hand firmly on the base of his sword. He had no fondness for dead things.

“Tell him,” she instructed Lorath, “that we welcome the prince and his people to the North _but_ whatever Daenerys Targaryen has told him, there is nothing up this way except ice and death.”

Lorath did his best, speaking in fragments of High Valyrian until the prince stopped him and shuffled upright in his bed, looking stronger.  A flush of dark magic in his cheeks.

“Walking death,” said Bu Gai, pointing his finger at the wall of ice, then to himself. “ _Kill_ death.”

“Hundreds of thousands,” Tormund whispered to Dacey, “they can’t stay on them boats – or ‘ere. They’ll bloody starve within days.”

“I know – _I know_. Lorath, if these people truly are here to fight  with us, most of them need to spread inland to other castles. I can send ravens to Castle Black and request a translator along with provisions to wait out the Winter. House Tyrell has a shipment diverted if we are quick. Somehow you need to make the prince and his men understand that we have come here to scout Eastwatch and return it to its status as an outpost fort. We were going to bring men from The Watch but I see no reason why we cannot use Bu Gai’s army. It may be possible to find safe passage for the women and children South.”

“Begging your pardon but they _all_ fight.  A man has seen their violence.”

Dacey did not know how to make Lorath understand. “The dead things that you saw in Essos, there is worse here. An army of corpses is headed this way. We don’t know when they will get here only that they are waiting for the bay to freeze. If we don’t hold this line all of Westeros may fall behind the veil.”

“The prince understands better than you think.” Then Lorath shared the horrific fate of _Braavos_.

* ~*~*

Alone outside  _Eastwatch_ castle, Tormund took Dacey by the arm and dragged her behind a wall, out of sight of the foreigners  whose cooking fires left a rank scent on the twilight.

Dacey growled, puzzled by his grip.

“That ain’t all he said.”

“’scuse me?” Dacey slipped free of his hold. She matched his whisper. “Lorath?”

“No. The Eastern cunt.” Tormund made her follow him further into the shadows cast by the weak light. There were fogs drifting in from the sea, curling around the edge of _The Wall_ from the  North. Soon they’d be surrounded. “He said that them ‘death walkers’ tha’ destroyed Essos come from beyond Mossovy – whatever that is – that they walk white waters in the night.”

“You speak High Valyrian?”

“I speak many things,” Tormund nodded. “Yer have to, ‘ter keep peace between a hundred tribes. Mance taught me a few Southern words ‘case you lot came ‘ter terms. Waste o’ bloody time. Most of ‘em are dead an’ gone.”

“Why didn’t you offer to speak to the prince? It would have made things a hell of a lot -”

“Best _they_ don’ know. Might ‘ear somethin’ interesting.”

A chill rose through Dacey’s veins.  Tormund had a sound point. “Mossovy is a kingdom in the North of Essos. It borders the Shivering Sea.”

“’an North o’ that?”

“Nobody knows but it sounds as though it freezes over during the Winter, like the Bay of Ice and the Bay of Seals.” Dacey frowned in thought – her gaze drifting to the water. “And dead men walk across it like a bridge.”

Dacely slid down the black wall until she was sitting in the snow. Tormund joined her but would never admit that his feet ached.

“What if it’s all the same shit?” Dacey asked. “Same North. The same things that crawl out of death to haunt us. One wall isn’t enough to stop them from crossing into the realm of the living. They’ll – they’ll wait. Winter _is_ coming. There must be paths of ice  opening across the Shivering Sea.”

“What good is a bloody wall if them dead things are already ‘ere?”

“You saw it yourself when you sailed out of Hardhome. They can’t cross the water without help. Westeros is an island. Couldn’t think of a better spot for a last stand.”

“Maybe them First Men had the same thought.”

“Sever Westeros from the world.”

*~*~*

Lorath took the bear and the Wildling to the  pile of bones  lodged in the snow. He stopped and pointed at the half-buried corpse then shrugged. “A man thought perhaps, a maester – on account of the chains.”

Dacey approached the corpse. The Lorathian was right. A  heavy chain hung around  its neck with links in several metals . “Maester Wyllis. Poor old fool. We heard stories about him. He made it  to  Eastwatch after all.”

Tormund grimaced  at the partially decomposed corpse .  “ Why is he ‘ere?”

“Every castle needs a maester, especially The Watch. He heard there was an opening an’-”

“Nah,” Tormund interrupted. “Why is he ‘ere – the snow. If he died o’ the cold they’d of buried the bugger. Murder well, why leave ‘im out in the open?”

L orath looked between  _Eastwatch_ and the snow. “The castle  may have been abandoned when he got here.”

“Had ‘ter be recent. There were lights on when we sailed in after Hardhome.” Tormund agreed. “That were only a few months back.”

“So maybe he stayed in the empty castle as long as he could. With no ravens he was cut off from the rest of the kingdom. Eventually he took his chances with the snow instead of dying alone in a crypt.”

“You could ask the other one.”

“The other _what_?” Asked Dacey.

“Old man. We found him in one of the castle rooms muttering insanity to himself so a man thought it best to leave him there.”

*~*~*

“I know ‘im,” said Tormund, as they entered the room perched near the top of the main building. “He was captain of the ship tha’ sailed us out o’ Hardhome.”

“Aye I was a captain,” Maynard Holt replied, standing as they entered his room. Like everyone else, he was thinned to bone but strong. “Not much of anything left to captain.”

“Except the fleet moored in the bay.” Dacey pointed out.

“Ironwood bricks, good fer nothin’ but sinking. The Talon. Now she was a ship. Half a bloody wreck now. Yer can still see ‘er there, out in the bay. Frozen decks and scraps for sails. A gravestone if e’er I saw one and a bastard tragedy on account of the wolf cub thinkin’ he knows what’s best.”

Maynard’s white beard tapered past his waist where a thick leather belt held his clothes in place. The body beneath, once wide had withered with the cold.

“I am sorry for your ship,” Dacey offered carefully. “How long has Eastwatch been abandoned?”

“That pack o’ Crows you lot left ‘ere deserted on the third night of the raid. Them Skagosi cunts came out of the mist one night and butchered the traders. They took everything. The horses. The pigs. Oil for the lanterns. All we had were pieces of flint and scrolls from the maester’s keep to stop our toes from fallin’ off. No bloody light this time o’ year. Supposed to be in the Summer Isles by now. All that’s gone to fuck. Pirates from ‘ere to Asshai. Whole fuckin’ world a mess.”

“Our…?” Dacey pried. “Do you mean the this army or-”

“Wyllis, poor fuck.” Maynard shook his head, rustling ice free. “Begged me not to burn the scrolls but yer ‘ave to cook rats.” There was almost a pause of sadness. “Told him not ter leave, didn’ I. Worst snow I seen in years. He wouldn’ listen. Insisted.”

“Why did you leave him out front?” Dacey asked.

“Should ‘ave burned him-” Tormund agreed.

“He hated this place,” Maynard admitted. “Didn’t see the sense of draggin’ ‘im back. As for burning. Ran out of fire. If this lot hadn’t turned up I’d ‘ave joined him out there.”

“But you _did_ see something, didn’t you?” Dacey pressed. “That’s why  Wyllis was intent on leaving Eastwatch. What was it… What did Wyllis know that was so important?”

Maynard shook his head wearily. “Argh,” he sighed, “ nobody’d fuckin’ believe it. They think men o’ the sea are mad that’s why they create them stories – giant squid the size of cities, ancient races with fish heads and lion bodies, creatures that crawl out of the water to fuck an’ eat. All fantasies created by landlocked folk terrified of the storms that blow in from the East.”

“Or the people that come with the storms...” Dacey all but whispered, remembering the Wildling hoards that tore about _Bear Island_ when clouds hid the moon.

“Yeah,” Maynard continued, “well Wyllis did have something to tell the Night’s Watch but it wasn’ nothing we saw. Can’ see much of shit these days. If yer hadn’ noticed, the sun never bloody rises this side o’ The Wall. It was ah, in the maester’s room, among the papers. Old fool wouldn’ let me burn it. Made me swear on the souls o’ all my dead children.”

“This scroll – do you still have it?”

“No. Gave it to that flowery prick. Couldn’ read it, could I?”

All eyes turned to Lorath, who’d been silent until this point. “ A man has a scroll. ”

*~*~*

The maester’s room wrapped around the entire top of  _Eastwatch’s_ turret, lined with empty cages and a layer of black feathers drifting over the floor. The spare seed had been stolen long ago. There wasn’t a single grain of it left. Either they’d eaten the birds or the last maester set them free. One sad skeleton remained with its leg tied to a wooden ornament on the desk. A dragon.

“It is not High Valyrian,” Lorath flattened it out on the table and placed a few ocean stones on the corners. “More like Old Ghiscari which means the prince has a better chance of correctly translating it. If a man had to guess, he’d say it was even older – the language of the fallen empire.” He pointed to a set of markings. “ _Death raisers_ , or necromancers. This is the symbol for _moon_ – it still appears on a few temples in the Free Cities. The most interesting part is here – _Western Lands_. Westeros. This maester Wyllis probably thought that this scroll dated from soon after Eastwatch was built and that it contains one of the earliest accounts of the men that walk in the snow.  Here – it’s yours.” Lorath handed it to Dacey.

“We might not have wings but we have Crows… I say we send two of them back with one of your men,” she said to Tormund, “with a copy of this. Fast as we can.” Then she turned to Lorath. “What do you think our chances are of borrowing one of these ships?”

“Why do you want a ship?” Asked Tormund.

“To meet a queen.”

Lorath shrugged. “A man will ask.” Then he left the room, scurrying down the endless spiral steps inside the tower.

“He is a very odd creature,” Dacey admitted of Lorath. “He’s not very forthcoming about how a man from Lorath ended up on the far side of the world with an army of savages.” Though there was no time for that story. “Where are the bodies? Lorath said they lost fifty men in the first days ashore – died of their wounds from Braavos. There are no pyres. I saw no graves.”

“Buried at sea?” Tormund offered. “Plenty of folk offer dead things to the water.”

Dacey closed her eyes in realisation. The stench in the air. The fires in the kitchens. Bowls full of stew to feed the starving thousands.

* ~*~*

Maynard was the only captain that could be persuaded to take them South. The others refused to set to the water again but they were prepared to loan one of their Ironwood ships.  Dacey left the rest of their men at  _Eastwatch_ where Lorath promised to keep an eye on them.

Dacey walked the frosted deck of the ship. It was squat and heavy in the water – a good thing too by the look of the ice floating beside, knocking up against the hull. Tormund cursed the whole time. He hated the water with unrestrained passion and snapped at any gulls brave enough to land on the ship beside him.

“You going to stand out here the whole way to King’s Landing?”

“Might bloody do,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the tempestuous water.

“Your beard will freeze solid,” she warned, “or something else...”

That earned a choked laugh. “Look, if the last time you’d been on a boat ended as badly as mine, yer might think twice ‘bout it too.  Who wants ter go further fuckin’ South? Land of the perfumed vipers.”

“This Targaryen queen has involved herself in this war. Those are _her_ men at Eastwatch – more than a hundred fold our number and more again on their way to the West. We need to know what she’s planning, one way or another. Last thing any of us want is to accidentally kill our allies when we need them most.”

“Long as they all piss off when it’s done.”

All Dacey could do was smile. Like Tormund, she loved the drifts of snow and endless walls of ice but most folk couldn’t wait to be rid of it and return to warmer waters.

* ~*~*

From the water,  _Skagos_ formed the perfect mirror of  _Ib_ .  Ironwood trees barely a foot apart crowded the mountainous innards, their purple leaves concealed beneath fresh snow. Even the  _Skagosi_ shared the maleficent features of the  _Ibbenese,_ tall and muscular with something of the sea about them.  They were waiting on the rocks that lined the shore, perched holding spears as their ship cut through the water. Lorath backed away from the edge.

T he  _Jogos Nai_ sailors circled the entire island. There was barely a harbour without faces watching from the trees.  They shook their heads. No one, it seemed, wanted to test the native population while the sheer number of ships kept the  _Ibbenese_ fishermen grounded on their island.

L orath turned his attention further North and asked if they might sail a little beyond the collapsing wall of ice. The ship snuck by several towers of ice, larger than buildings. One had a bloody stain on one side where a seal had been savaged and left in pieces with half a frozen head still balanced on top.  The world after that was quite different.

There were several more islands, significantly smaller and uninhabited. Their forests were swamped with snow while several monstrous shelves of ice had rammed into their shores and created white skirts.  On the right,  _Skagos_ continued but ahead the  _Shivering Sea_ waited for victims. Left, the famed  _Lands of Always Winter,_ although Lorath found them rather underwhelming. The  _Haunted Forest_ was simply a snow-dusted wood and the shore interspersed with glaciers contain ing the same pods of seals and seagulls as before.  It looked almost-

“Beautiful...” Lorath breathed.

A  sailor nudged his arm and pointed further to a figure standing at the edge of the water.  Rags for clothes. Bone for legs. Blue eyes. Unbreathing.

M ore – dotted along black rocks. Keeping watch of the water. Or waiting for those waters to freeze.

“Turn the ship around...”

They didn’t understand Lorath but they must have had the same thought for the sails fell flat and the wheel creaked full circle.

* ~*~*

B u Gai was waiting for Lorath outside  _Eastwatch_ . Stronger again, the prince now dressed to fit his station and carried a curved sword at his waist. His irritable gestures toward  _Skagos_ suggested he wanted  to launch a raid. Lorath placed his hands carefully on the prince’s shoulders and shook his head, trying to make him understand  the folly of this action.

Instead of invasion, a ship was scuttled and used as firewood. Three more died during the day and come night they filled the bowls along with rabbit and crab. The Crows refused to take part and spent hours with repaired fishing nets, dragging what little they could from the water.  One of the Wildlings was a  _Thenn_ and joined the butchers in the kitchen, carving limbs  with terrifying delight.

Lorath sat with the Crows if only for the conversation. They were wary of him and he of them. He’d heard the stories of the  _Night’s Watch_ – how they were a band made from the worst of the  _Seven Kingdoms_ . A few vows hardly changed a man and this lot looked dire  without their commander.

“What state is Greenguard Castle in?”

“That piece of shit?” Replied one, with a distinctly Southern accent. “About the same as this except it’s got a halfway decent forest and a hot spring that melts the ice. There’s enough people here to fill castles all the way to Oakenshield. Ask me, this lot are wasting their time. Pretty soon the world will look like us but you go on, scatter from one end of The Wall to the next if you like.”

Another Crow grabbed Lorath by the neck, his enormous hand crushing the breath from his lungs as he was dragged backwards through the room. Lorath kicked his legs wildly, struggling against the brutal hold while the others laughed.

“Prettiest cunt we’ve seen in years,” another added.

“The cone heads don’t count.”

“Or that dried out Mormont bitch.”

T hen laughter rattled through the frigid air like bones shaking in the crypt.

###  **DEEP LAKE – THE WALL**

Emerald waters smoked, puffing from fires deep below which kept the beautiful green lake liquid through the longest Winters. The forest huddled right to the edges with some pines that strayed too close boiled alive, left standing as sharp, stripped trunks. Yellow rings gathered on their bark. Sulphurous stains which left the water equally undrinkable.

_Deep Lake_ castle was nothing like its sisters. New and built in the Valyrian style, it meandered along the base of  _The Wall_ with pretty, steep thatched buildings that stood separate from each other. The main castle had elegant, tapered walls with dragon statues perched on every cornice. Useless balconies looked South while an ornate barrier, made of pine instead of stone, offered the illusion of protection that had never been tested.

Built by the wish of Alysanne Targaryen, there was even a roost for her dragon,  _Silverwing_ .  The dragon motifs continued to the castle hall where, after passing through a set of double doors engraved with old songs, there was a mosaic floor, as beautiful as any in the realm, with a startling silver dragon, wings spread against an azure sky.  There were display sections cut into the walls of the main hall where various relics collected from beyond  _The Wall_ sat untouched.

Melisandre avoided the dragon floor and instead took a turn of the room, lingering at the captured objects. The last was a curved dragon fang, dug out of the ice along the  _Frozen Shore_ . Alysanne had collected it herself during one of her long flights into the untamed extremity.  Dorin smacked her hand away as she reached for the bone.

“Sacred!” He growled at her. “Touch _nothing_ , fire witch.” Dorin may have saved her from the snow but he had no special love for creatures of magic. “I don’ want your fire gods upsettin’ the old gods.”

“Dragons are made of fire,” she replied calmly, stroking her fingers along the curve of bone in defiance. “They are my kin.”

“Not these dragons,” Dorin replied darkly. “Here, dragons are made of _ice_.”

Melisandre removed her hand and turned her attention to the hall. “This is different to the other castles.”

“It has been manned since it was built,” Dorin replied. “For a time it was popular with lords and ladies who wished to take a gander at The Wall. Some of them travelled for months to stay here. Should be this way-” he added, leading her into a side room.

“You appear to know this castle well.”

“Even I made the trip a few times tradin’ bear skins. Ah, there’s plenty of game up this way but the noble ladies, they want the white fur an’ those beasts only hunt across the Bay of Ice. Big bastards. Live of them pelts for a few seasons.” He paused suddenly at the skin mounted on the wall beside the fire. It was one of the white bears. Dorin pointed at it with a rare surge of pride. “One of mine an’ all! Nearly bloody killed me. Dragged a few fishermen under in its time.”

_Deep Lake_ operated as it always had, with a stable population of Night’s Watch along with mysterious families of women and children living out in the log cabins. Aside from muttering their vows at the bleeding tree and wearing black cloaks, they were starkly different to the rest of the kin helped in part by the fact that  _none_ of them had been sent from Southern prisons. They were all born free in the North, many of them right here and treated the castle as an inn, turning a moderate profit.

“You best fix those walls of yours,” Dorin advised the Night’s Watch brother that greeted them warmly. “There are hoards of starving creatures heading your way. Might take ‘em a while but they’ll soon hear of this gem.”

I gnoring Dorin’s warning, the brother assigned them to a cabin nearest the lake  for half the purse Thorne had given them where the lowest limbs of the pines brushed the roof with a soft  _hiss_ that Dorin found rather comforting. It reminded him of the forest around his home and the endless days he’d spent laying under the rustling trees.

“What makes it do that?” He asked, of the bubbling lake.

Melisandre sat on the window ledge, her head resting on the glass. “There are great fires beneath the ground. In some places, the rock crack s releasing the flame. Sometimes this flows over the mountains. Others it is like this, trapped under water.”

“You’ve seen these fire mountains?” Dorin asked curiously, as he penned a letter to send to _Castle Black_.

“There were many of these in Asshai. The Shadow Lands are full of embers from which the Red God watches.”

“...and dragons hatch.”

“And dragons hatch.” She agreed. “Inside the Mountains of the Morn there are creatures forgotten by the world. They crawl deep into the throats of caves with tentacles for limbs and panels of large, red eyes. Dragons, so old and large that the mountains around their lairs smoke when they stir. Men of bone live in cities dressed by flesh. A yellow man rules, sunk halfway into death by the weight of jealousy and grief for an empire crushed to dust. Why do these things interest you so, Dorin? A simple man from a frozen island, what business do you have with my god?”

“Not a business I asked for,” he assured her, “but one that kicks me in the face. Dragons and Bears, they dance together. I’ve watched their storms brew.”

“You did not tell Commander Thorne the whole truth of what you saw.”

“Thorne is a very serious sort of creature. After he sees the dead march on Castle Black, I will share the rest. You – I do not trust enough to tell. You burned a child to death in front of her parents to buy a warm Winter’s morning. I wager you’d do _anything_ your god asked without hesitation.”

“Of course. We are all servants of the Red Lord.”

“Not in the North. Up here we view our gods with suspicion. We choose, you understand, how far into hell we’ll follow. I’ll not be dragged into the flames with you unless I’ve carefully considered my options.”

“I can see why your word carries weight along The Wall. You’ve no fear of consequence.”

“Fear of consequence?” Dorin’s throat ruptured in a type of laugh closer to a bear’s growl. “When you live among savage creatures, every breath has consequence.” He finished his letter, rolling the tiny strip of paper into the special carry pouch to tie onto a raven’s leg. “That’s why your religion can’t make it past The Twins. Bullshit freezes faster than water up this way.”

Aside from near constant references to her Lord of Light, Dorin found that he could bear her company rather well. With age came a certain appreciation for silence and they managed stretches of those, particularly when they walked down to the smouldering lake. Dorin brought his axe and laid a few snares.

“Not sure you should be doing that,” he called over his shoulder, when he noticed Melisandre slide off her shoes and step onto the warm rocks edging the lake. Ignoring his concern, she stepped into the water. It burned against her skin but she revelled in its warmth, allowing the fire to seep into her soul. She closed her eyes and, ankle deep, whispered to the god below. Dorin, kneeling in the snow beside a freshly killed hare, stopped to watch. As the Red Priestess whispered enchantments, the mist hovering on the surface of the green lake whipped into a swirling nest. Transfixed, he dared not breathe as the mist took form – lifting into the bust of a woman with slender arms and flowing hair – all of her formed from the vapour except a pair of amethyst eyes. They stared desperately from their malformed shell. The same eyes he’d seen creep through the forest along _The Wall_ , haunting the world of men. “No – _no_!” He found his voice, scrambling to his feet. He crossed the slurry of ice, grabbed the witch and dragged her out of the water.

The moment her words died, the pale woman collapsed back into a layer of fog.

“Who is she – _who is she_?” Dorin demanded, shaking Melisandre harder than he meant. He realised his violence and released her clothes, allowing her to sit. “The woman in the lake.”

“I don’t know...” Melisandre whispered, denying over and over, “but I can hear her wailing when I close my eyes.”

Dorin, ever a man of simple logic, relaxed into the snow to think. He looked between the lake,  _Wall_ and fire witch – then to the forest where he’d seen those eyes receding into shadow. “ Whomever –  _whatever_ that ghost-lass is, I’d bet my axe she’s got something ter do with all the shit that’s been going on for the last few thousand years.” This time, Dorin offered Melisandre his hand, dragging her off the ground. “Fire for blood or not, I’d rather you not catch cold before we get to Westwatch. You’ll not be much good for the cause if you lose your voice.”

“What is it you intend to do,” she asked, after finding her feet, “when we reach this Western fort?”

Dorin was not a man of war. He felled pine for warmth and kept an eye on the forests of Bear Island. Every now and then he taught a cub how to use a sword against. “That green fire from the South. They say we can use it to set the dead alight. Fire kills the walking bone.  There’s a shit load of it en-route.”

“And the pale-skinned demons that come with them?”

“I’ll take my chances against one or two of those.”

Melisandre did not doubt that for one moment. “This is  _The Great War_ ,” she warned. “Dreamers have seen it coming for centuries. I knew some of them. They lived within the cursed city and screamed through the night.  Wars like this are not won one battle at a time. They must be waged from within. For a long time, I thought King Stannis was the light in the dark but his blood was that of a usurper, neither old nor powerful enough to stand against the gods.” She hesitated. “You already know that this is a war for magic, or you’d not be helping the dragon girl.”

“Listen – I _remember_ the sound those bone-men made as they crossed the bridge. I don’t want that to be the last thing ever soul in Westeros hears before the end. I meant what I know you heard me say at Castle Black. Witches are bad luck. I’ll have to take that chance but if you’re looking for worshippers to fall in line with your doctrine and tempting stories I’m afraid this is not your Northerner.”

T hey returned to their hut as the brief sunlight died. The days shortened and the nights lengthened. Dorin had heard enough stories from his island to know that this was the approach of the next great Winter. Children born in Summer did not understand what it meant for the moon to replace the sun. Silver light had no warmth. All it did was illuminate the frost.

“I met the Targaryen queen,” said Dorin, sinking into a chair by the fire. Snow fell outside the window. It would fall all night. “Tiny slip of a thing but very strange in the head. There are many kinds of madness. Anyway, the part I didn’t tell you or Thorne was about her eyes. _Same eyes_ ,” he pointed to his own, “same as that ghostly woman in the lake.”

###  **NIGHTFORT – THE WALL**

“Still a bastard of a thing,” declared Edd, leaning heavily on the handle of his shovel. Smoke poured from several chimneys in the castle, light shone from windows, doors had been refashioned and put in place, skins hung on racks, the clash of practice swords droned continuously from the main square and yet the _Nightfort_ remained a nightmare on the landscape.

“Agreed,” said Howland Reed. “Though it will have to do. Three more caravans were spotted heading this way. The steady trail of people from the South is about to turn into a tide.”

“Foolish cunts,” muttered Edd. “Who the fuck runs toward a war?”

“They are running from the wars in the South.”

Edd scoffed. “They don’ know how lucky they are. If I didn’t have this cloak I’d buy me-self a ship and head to a perfect bloody atoll but an oath is an oath.”

“That boy is getting bigger,” Reed added, nodding to Cub who was half way through skinning a deer.

“Aye. Thought he was a runt but maybe not. Won’t matter though. He’ll still be half a foot smaller than the rest of us when the fighting starts.”

*~*~*

Every morning Howland Reed traipsed through the fresh snowfall, carrying a lantern. He ducked beneath the weeping pines, ignored the distant howl of wolves and fought his way into the a small clearing. There he found a sapling, no bigger than a man. White bark with three strong branches holding a flourish of blood leaves. A new _Weirwood_ , thriving in the sudden cold. The darkness brought it to life.

Reed knelt and set his lantern in the snow. He placed a pair of Winter Rose blossoms on the white carpet, closed his eyes and prayed to the Old Gods. Reed thought only of his children, lost beyond _The Wall_. Jojen used to visit him, possessing forest creatures that would pause oddly or approach him in the snow all with deep green eyes.

_Crack._

He opened his eyes. The forest remained unmoved in the darkness. Snow flurries tumbled through the gap in the canopy. The stars glistened. Smoke from the fires of the  _Nightfort_ continued to taint the sky. The flame inside his lantern shivered.

Then he saw the pair of blue eyes watching him from the other side of the  _Weirwood_ . Enormous, yawning moons, pale as  _The Wall_ . The  _direwolf_ stood with its fur puffed across the shoulders – head dipped and left paw lifted from the twig it had snapped.

R eed knew that Lord Stark had given his children pups. In the years since, they’d grown into beasts. One of them used to accompany Robb’s army – picking off men who strayed into the woods on their own or feasting on the corpses of slain Lannisters. Its head was sewn onto its owner’s corpse. What a miserable folly those years had been.

This creature was different. White fur, enormous stance – towering near the hight of a pony. It had been wild for many years.

“Easy...” Howland breathed, careful not to move. If this wolf had ever been tame, it must the girl Arya’s monster. What was the damn thing’s name?

Breath puffed from the wolf’s snout. A soft growl reverberated through its chest. Slowly, it placed its foot back on the broken twig and inched forward.

“Nymeria!” Howland fished the name from the fog. Of course, the warrior queen, like the young lady herself. “Nymeria...” he repeated, calmer. “I remember you.”

Recognition flickered across the wolf’s eyes but did not deter it from a meal. The North was sparse and its appetite deep. A familiar face was not enough.


	90. Lion, Wolf, Dragon and Bear

 

 

###  **KING’S LANDING – WESTEROS**

Ser Jorah Mormont and Daario lingered outside the _Black Cells_ , listening to the constant pound of dead flesh against the _Ironwood_ slab. The Mountain, undead, threw himself into the door, shaking the hinges in violent bursts. Occasional sobs from the accompanying cells drew a concerned glance from Jorah but any thought of freeing their captives was quickly dashed by tales told on _Bear Island_ of half-monsters with the cry of a child and flesh from mutated abominations, cast into darkness from their first breath. The _Black Cells_ were a cursed monstrosity and neither of them wanted to spend a moment more in their depths in case it latched on and dragged them into shackles.

“How long do you think he’ll keep that up?” Asked Daario, tightening his grip on _Brightroar_ with every unnerving _thud_. It sounded exactly like the _Jade Gates_ holding back the hoard. Those had failed...

Jorah was not a man to guess. “What’s dead may never die,” he murmured Daario’s House words, with an air of contempt. “I dare say these doors have held worse.”

“Worse? I wonder what else they keep locked up down here...” Daario took a fresh torch from the wall. Its flames reached hungrily for his arm but Daario lifted it to the darkness where the cool wind tamed the heat. He inched deeper into the hallway, looking curiously from cell to cell but none of them had windows and so they remained nameless wooden faces. “Who knows, we might find a few friends. Twyin bought silence with Littlefinger’s loose purse. After he died the coffers emptied but the silence remained. I am sure both Cersei and Robert tossed plenty of undeserving souls into the shadows to pay for it.”

Jorah hesitated at the mention of Robert’s name. He had fought a rebellion for that king and his rule had fashioned a form of peace among the survivors. If Robert had been as careful with his wife as he was in war, this whole sorry saga may have played to a different tune.

“Whatever they were when they were set in chains, they are not those things any more,” Jorah warned. “If our queen wishes us to find out their names I will come back here myself and open the doors, one by one.” Jorah swiped a torch of his own but instead of following Daario, he turned toward the exit. “Daenerys will be waiting for us. She is not a patient creature.”

Daario shrugged. “Perhaps Varys could spare you the bother. I hear he has an inventory on hell. An unkind voice might accuse him of putting some of those names in here himself.”

“An accusation I’ve never heard him deny.” Jorah replied flatly.

Daario sighed, observing his companion. More than anyone he seemed to walk from one world to the next, untouched. “You don’t change, you know that – Mormont? You’ve got about as much variety as a Frey. I suppose that is an honourable quality in a knight. Loyalty and stability. Not so much for Ironborn. The ocean is a tempestuous bitch and so too those that live at her lips. Your kind march dutifully toward war in all your ranks and files – we _plunge_ into the battle, cock first, eh?”

“To be fair,” Jorah’s tone did not change but there was a definite twinkle in his eye, “I rode into this war on the back of a dragon.”

All Daario could do was laugh. The incongruous sound echoed through the labyrinth.

“The queen will wish to visit Dragonstone.” Jorah ignored Daario and headed up the stairs which were decorated with puddles of his own blood. It was nearly indiscernible from the oily, black stone except when the torchlight danced across its surface. He could have sworn that the surface drank from the horror.

Daario sheathed his sword, deciding his ill-tempered friend was protection enough. As he scaled the steps ahead, Daario noticed Jorah’s other sword catch the firelight. _Dawn._ He’d seen it before. Once. In a crude sketch in a maester’s scroll. His father did not believe in soft education. Words were for the weak creatures of the world but even as a child he’d understood that knowledge was as sharp as any sword. The relic around Mormont’s waist was more than a weapon. It was a _message_ to the lords of _Westeros_ , one that their honour would understand better than violence or creatures made of fire.

“Strangely I missed your company,” Daario added, after walking for a while alone in the dark passages with Jorah. “Out on the flats behind Old Ghis, best I could do for companionship was an ill-tempered donkey that said less than you and a pack of toothless children who tried to unwrap my bandages during the freezing, desert nights. I honestly thought that was how I would die. Laying in the sand with a star-filled sky. Nothing to my name, not even a sword.”

“You certainly landed on your feet.” It was as close as Jorah could do for a compliment. “Aside from the-” Jorah hinted at Daario’s assortment of beads and shells woven into his long, braided hair. He looked as though he’d washed up after a storm but to be fair, the dark tattoos on Jorah’s skin made him look more like a demon from the _Shadowlands_ than a disgraced Lord.

“Odd, how the gods work.” Daario mused. “I’ve chased the tide all my life but to find the break I had to turn away from the shore. There are nights when I worry that those same gods want me alive for a reason.” And that they slipped poison into his veins via the Bloodstone, sending him visions of their sickening dreams.

“If the gods have reasons, they are unlikely to be to our advantage.”

“That is _precisely_ why I worry.”

“Fear keeps the Queen awake,” Jorah admitted. “She does not say,” he amended carefully, “but Westeros leaves her restless. All she ever wanted was to set foot upon its shores – stand with the ghosts of her kin but now that she is here it is as though she cannot wait to mount her dragon and leave all of this behind. She walks into the night and stares, for hours, at the fading edge of the red star. I think she can sense the bleached dragon bones crushed into sand along the edge of Blackwater Bay.”

“Who can blame her?” Daario admitted. “The truth about her family is that half of them were mad and the others were-”

Jorah turned so that the flame of his torch wavered a fraction too close to Daario’s face, quieting him. “The Queen is under no illusions in regard to her family. I doubt she would even hold true to her earlier threats concerning Jaime Lannister.”

“His head _would_ be improved by a spike. Those golden locks – tussled by a stiff sea breeze...”

“You may be right,” Jorah turned back to the tunnel and continued up the stairs until they reached the ground level. They abandoned the torches and stroke through the rubble, side by side. “But killing everyone in the realm is not a solution to our looming problem.”

“The war in the North?”

“Peace, after the war.”

“Ever the optimist… If I were the Queen’s advisor I’d advise her to leave the peace negotiations until _after_ the war is won. There’s no point wasting time promising things to corpses. This is Varys’ doing. Scheming little shit. He climbs and climbs and climbs thinking the ladder is without end. It’s about time someone took him down a few rungs. You disapprove… Your silence has a certain tone to it.”

“Varys is not a complex man. Plotting keeps him out of trouble. Let him waste all the time he likes orchestrating a future neither you nor I is likely to see.”

“Speak for yourself, old man. I intend to survive all this shit. I ‘ave a brother to kill and a Salt Throne to sit.”

Jorah wondered if Daario’s conversation had a point or if he’d simply tired of his fellow pirates. From what he understood many were slave creatures from the whispering edges of the _Jade Sea_ who couldn’t speak a word of the Common Tongue. The only language they spoke was that of wine and blood. “Feel that?” He paused and placed his hand upon the stone. There were tremors running through the rock like a series of panicked heart beats. “The city is collapsing.”

“Not the victory Dany was hoping for,” Daario agreed, when they finally reached the entrance hall where a window allowed them to peek at the destruction. “Haven’t managed a proper look at it yet. Not sure I want to.”

_King’s Landing_ did not burn for long. The stone buildings were gutted with flames crawling along the narrow passageways lined with cloth and oil. The ashes of their contents were left plastered against the walls while the wooden beams that held their roofs up smouldered with  heat that would last for days.  _Fleabottom_ was a sodden ruin. Bodies lay in the mud. The gulls waited, stalking in wandering flocks waiting for the heat to pass.  There was even a storm murdering the edge of the horizon leaving fragments of light sparking at random.

“Cersei was mad to keep Wildfire stockpiles beneath the city,” Jorah sighed. “Even the purest mix is prone to random explosion. I swear to the old gods we heard the explosion in Old Town when I was a boy. It shook the foundations of Westeros.”

“Cersei is an evil cunt, to be sure.” Daario breathed – his nose to the barred window. There was a distinct smell of burning flesh in the wind. He knew it well from his days with cannibals. “But you and I both know that it was one of the dragons that set the whole mess alight. They were meant as shadows in the sky. A bit of theatre. Varys was so sure that they would make the Lannister forces more likely to surrender the city yet here we are… I wonder, if Varys is such a smart bastard, why didn’t he see this coming?”

Worse, Jorah had warned Daenerys about using dragons as a front for war. They were wild creatures, made for open fields of battle. “ She blames herself,” Jorah turned away from the window. “Rhaegal was afraid  but it was Cersei that lit the Sept of Balor first.”

“We must hope the people remember Cersei’s part,” Daario reply, “and not the dragon circling overhead.”

“Daenerys is _not_ her father...” Jorah added quietly.

“Never said she was,” Daario assured him, yet they had _both_ seen the danger in her eyes. They could lie all they liked but the queen scared them. “You better do something about that shoulder. Can’t have you bleeding out on me. You’d be a bastard to carry.”

Jorah unhooked the remaining leather ties that held the plated armour over his shoulder.  Part of it had been folded nearly  in half by  a blow. At the centre, The Mountain’s blade had penetrated the metal and snapped at his flesh. A clean strip of raw meat had bled so much it had cleaned itself,  still dribbling over the silver . Unable to reach it easily, Daario helped. He wound several strips of material around the wound  and pinned it in place with one of his ornately formed bronze pins. Jorah watched closely. The pain did not bother him half so much as  the writing on his arm.  It bothered Daario too who paused more than once to observe it  but the words meant nothing to him . If he had questions, he kept them to himself.

“Dragonstone is a pirate lair,” Jorah continued, averting his gaze as Daario peeled a piece of cloth from his flesh. “Is it true what they say about the mountain – that there are lakes of fire beneath its feet?”

“There are tunnels, some built by the Targaryens, others by fire long before. At the centre there is a lake of burning metal that growls through the night. Killed one of the pirates. It is not so dangerous as the fumes. Those collect in the narrow passages and choke the life from your throat. We found dozens of skeletons in the dark. They’d been building up for years.”

“And the Queen’s treasure from Valyria?”

Daario did not dispute that the pilfered weapons and jewels from _Valyria_ belonged to the Queen. “Buried in the tunnels under guard except for some shipments that we sent North to the Wall  under her request. Black glass and shit. One thing I did not tell Varys, there were ravens waiting for us in the castle dating back since Stannis abandoned the place. A perfect record of the realm. What? You do not trust my men?”

“They are _pirates_ ,” said Jorah simply. “They’ve probably eaten the ravens.”

“Aye, they are pirates,” Daario did not dispute it, “but a thousand of them fought for the Queen today. Gold makes them honest. The shit they saw in Yin – _that makes them loyal._ ”

“And if they saw what waited for them in the North, they’d run.”

Daario finished with Jorah’s arm and leaned back, resting against the stone wall with the soft hum of explosions tapering away as the ruination of the city neared completion. “Look...” He began, understanding that there was a gulf of mistrust between them. “You’re not bothered by pirates any more than I am by Dothraki. What really troubles your conscience, Mormont, is that I am Ironborn.” He watched Jorah flinched and knew that he was right. “I’ll always be Ironborn. Always fear the Drowned God waiting for my soul beneath the waves. Always remember the Salt Crown and my father’s ghostly words but – if the Wildings and the Night’s Watch can stand with one king then you and I can wait in the wings of a dragon.”

“You lied about who you were.”

“And you plotted against Dany to square your debt to the Crown. The world changed us both and I’m not sure either of us could return to our home and slip back into our family ways. We are as different from each other as we are to our past selves. That is probably for the best.”

_Jorah knew it._ Standing on  _Bear Island_ in the snow he understood that he could never return to those peaceful forest hunts. They were gone – lost to the ice. Maybe Daario’s world was gone as well, swept away by the sea.

“If we are going to trust each other,” Jorah replied, “then tell me what you are hiding. It is not the Queen’s treasure and it is not your intent. What then? I can see the shadows in your eyes. What were you doing in the Red Keep when your orders were to lead the pirate fleet into battle? You should have been on the waves not scurrying through the shadows of the Red Keep.”

“Only if you agree to keep it between _us_ alone. Swear it on your honour. On your _mother_.” For Daario knew she lay as ash upon the frozen shore.

N ormally Jorah would not have agreed but there was something about the smell of burning flesh wafting through the open window in the castle, fusing to the salt and sticking to the walls in a terrible, oily soot that swayed him otherwise. Once sworn, Daario told him of Tommen, smuggled out via the depths of the Red Keep and into the hands of the  _Braavosi_ banker.

“I suppose you would have killed him,” Daario mused, wiping the blood from his sword before re-sheathing it.

“That would have been the smart thing to do,” Jorah agreed. “Keeping a pet Lannister is not wise.”

“You’ve got one...”

“Tyrion was an _accident_ but no, I would not have killed him. Tyrion make a case for Tommen’s life before the Queen sailed to war. She was prepared to spare the young king but – with him presumed dead, perhaps there is an opportunity.” Although a small, dark part of Jorah knew that things would be much simpler if the boy were indeed dead. He was a child now but in time he’d grow into another usurper. For all his temper, Robert Baratheon had been _right_ about Daenerys. He’d be far from surprised to look upon the smoking remains of _King’s Landing_ with a dragon sitting on three sides of the city walls. “ Where is he now?”

“On a boat with Tycho, headed to Dragonstone.”

“He cannot be there when the Queen arrives.”

“Where else can I possibly send him? No – _no_...” Daario shook his head, catching Jorah’s eye. “Highgarden is a pit of vipers. The Queen of Thorns would sell him for a crate of crab meat.”

“Olenna does whatever is in her best interest and at the moment her best interest is to keep as many pokers in the fire as possible. There’s nothing the Tyrells do better than hide secrets, they keep them in their hedgegroves. Tommen will be safe in Highgarden.”

“You mean he’ll be a hostage.”

“He’ll be out of sight from birds and spiders alike.”

Well there at least, Daario could not argue. Even if the Queen was serious about her offer to Tyrion, Varys would not lose any sleep trading the boy for something lucrative. “If that is your wish, I must speak with Olenna before her ship makes landfall – and that banker shit, before he has an original idea .”

“I’ll make your excuses to the Queen. We will call on you in Dragonstone before the week is out. Make sure the boy is gone by then.”

“This I will do,” Daario agreed. “And Mormont...” He waited for the knight to hesitate. “One day, when all of this is done, we shall talk about this peace of yours.”

* ~*~*

_Drogon_ landed in  two inches of ash.  It puffed around his enormous, clawed feet in plumes so heavy they immediately sank into a layer of filth. Daenerys slid down his scales, dangling from the last protrusion of bone behind his wing before setting foot on the roof of the  _Red Keep_ .

The entire turret trembled under  _Drogon’s_ weight – shuddering as he flapped his wings, lifted his snout and roared at the vista. His brothers called back but kept to their perches.  After, a soft, mournful song filled the air. Did dragons lament their fate? There was  _something_ in  _Drogon’s_ unblinking eye that spoke of regret but then he turned that eye toward the North and left Daenerys to her thoughts.

Daenerys wandered to the short stone wall that rimmed the tower and placed her hands on the stone. It was grey up close. Miserable and brittle. It was the smoke and rising sun that painted false colour in its dead flesh.  She picked at it then brushed the sediment from under her nails.

I n the harbour below, the Lannister fleet had been dismantled.  _Unsullied_ manned the boats along with  _Dornish_ who’d been ferried in from the mainland to help with the enormous task of joining the fleet. She had lost nearly as many ships as she’d gained but the Lannister fleet  was better suited to the shallow, rough waters circling  _Westeros_ .  As soon as they were seaworthy they’d sail into the  _Narrow Sea_ and ferry the majority of her army North.

A large stone building crumbled below, collapsing in on itself. She remembered _Braavos_ and the cowering banker dipping his head while the walls of his world tumbled to dust. _The path to the throne is paved with suffering._ The debt was paid. The throne awaited.

T he steps within the  _Keep_ spiralled in a tight coil, each too high for her small statue. Her left hand pressed against the wall for support while the occasional window cut the darkness with angry columns of light that quickly died on the stone.  Darkness. Light. Darkness. Light. She stepped between the cyclic hell.  Several levels down she heard the first shuffles of life.  It belonged to castle staff. Cooks and maids, lowly squires and all the rest of the silent army that kept the Crown afloat. They cowered at her presence, shying away from her silver hair and unnatural eyes. Daenerys knew that she had the look of her father and all the pale ghosts of her family empire. These people knew only the years of terror and nothing of the golden age that had come before when the realm flourished in vast stretches of peace.

“Khaleesi...”

Daenerys trembled at the utterance. It came from ahead. There, on the other side of the room stood her knight. He cut a lonely figure against the stone wall.  He could have been a statue pulled from a crypt.

“Ser, you are injured,” she said, as she approached. He waved her off and fell into line beside her, guiding her through the maze of hallways that filled the innards of the _Red Keep_.

He made no comment on her bloodied robes.  “ Tyrion and Varys a wait you  in the throne room.”

“Then it is done?”

“You may see for yourself, Your Grace.”

The doors to the great throne room were vast. Carved from  _Ironwood_ it usually took four men to push them open. On this occasion there was no need. One of them had shaken from its hinges and fallen inwards. It lay at the bottom of the steps, split down the middle. The other hung at a slant, threatening to do the same. Daenerys picked her way through and entered the long, vaulted room.

It was larger than she had envisioned. There was a bank of windows running the entire length of the right hand wall, designed for the light to pour through its coloured glass designs. Today, the sky was obscured by roving clouds of smoke, some of which crawled in through the broken windows. This left the hall in an unnatural twilight with nothing but the calderas of flame affixed to each column to give light to the room. Daenerys paid no attention to any of it. Her attention was drawn to the ugly tangle of iron on the far side. A tribute to servitude upon which men sat. The _Iron Throne_ , in all its wretched glory. A lion lay draped over it with a golden, tangled mane – eyes open, even in death and a crown at her feet.

Tyrion and Varys scrambled to their feet. They shared a wary exchange then braced themselves. Cersei’s corpse remained exactly where she’d been slain except the purple marks on her neck from the chain which had darkened considerably.

Daenerys stopped at the base of the stairs directly in front of the throne and spent long minutes observing the previous occupant of  its  power. Certainly Tommen had been the king but everybody in the realm knew that it was Cersei who sat upon the throne. Now look at her… High cheekbones and a fair complexion had become sunken cheeks and paper-thin renderings.  Her flesh cracked open. Fragile and dead. Daenerys fel t  absolutely  _nothing_ for the woman she’d never met.

“What happened here?” She asked instead. “Surrender is not normally such a quiet affair.”

Tyrion and Varys shifted their gaze to Jorah but his steely blue eyes gave them no hope of assistance. It was Tyrion who eventually took a hesitant step toward Daenerys, his head bowed in fear. “This is not  _exactly_ what it looks like,” he attempted to explain. Varys flinched and Tyrion realised that he was going to have to produce a better explanation. “Okay… It’s mostly what it looks like.”

“Did you kill your sister?”

Tyrion tilted his head from side to side. “Mostly.”

“Ignoring my order that she be kept alive.”

“ _Ignoring_ is a-”

“Then _yes_ , it is exactly as it looks, Lord Tyrion.” Daenerys’ cool tone settled in a layer of frost at their feet. The building gave another alarming shake as _Drogon_ paced around on the castle turret.  There was a drawn out silence where nobody quite knew what the dragon queen would do about Tyrion’s defiance. “You earned your vengeance,” Daenerys eventually replied, “but this is the last time you kill someone without asking me first. Clear?”

“Absolutely crystal...” Tyrion assured her, bowing even lower this time. He slipped his sister’s chain into his robes and stepped away from the throne, allowing the queen to climb to the vile sculpture of melted swords.

“Where is the boy?”

This time it was Varys who answered. “We’re not entirely certain.  _Dead_ , we think. I’ve sent feelers out but the city is in chaos. I could not confirm the whereabouts of my left arm at present. Wherever he is, dead or alive, king Tommen is not plotting a rebellion any time soon. The city is  _yours_ , my queen. The kingdom...”

“The Seven Kingdoms are not a pile of blackened swords...” Daenerys could smell death on the throne. The longer she looked, the less inclined she was to seat herself – even without Cersei’s corpse. “Lord Varys, you will join your birds and _confirm_ Tommen’s fate. If he is alive you will bring him here, to me, exactly as you found him and if he is dead you bring back whatever part of him you find. Go…”

Varys went immediately. Tyrion closed his eyes, trying not to imagine his young nephew face down in the bay, picked at by sharks or hanging from the palace walls. All he could do was  _pray_ that the queen honoured her promise earlier and spared his life if he were found breathing.

“What happens next?”

“Your Grace?”

Daenerys rephrased her question. “With the heart of the empire in ruins, what happens next?”

Tyrion swallowed. “Many more are going to die in the next few days,” he admitted. “Sending the  survivors to Highgarden and surrounding towns will help  feed them but you cannot displace a mass of people and hope for the peace to keep. Even if they don’t starve, there’ll be strife. King’s Landing needs to be patched up as quickly as possible if you want to  stay on the throne. Then there  are the other lords...”

“Which lords?”

“The lords who stand to lose a great deal from your conquest. They will march on the capital as soon as they hear of the massacre.”

“It is better we do not fight those battles within the city walls,” Jorah interrupted the dwarf. “This city does not compliment our army. Open fields, that is where we will win our battles.”

Tyrion nodded. “Ser Jorah is correct. You have dragons and Dothraki – they need space to to be effective.”

“I am not looking for another massacre...”

“You will have one all the same,” Tyrion warned. “And you will need to fly to Highgarden with a dragon immediately. Lord Tarly will be the _first_ to raise arms and he won’t go for the Red Keep. He’s too smart. He’ll march on Highgarden and take your allies from under your wing. You cannot allow him to  seize the realm’s largest food store.”

“I cannot _leave_ King’s Landing the hour I conquered it.”

“Yet you must.”

“And see another Lannister in possession of the Iron Throne?”

“I am _far_ from alone, Your Grace,” Tyrion assured her.

*~*~*

“I don’t like it,” Daenerys stormed along the wall that circled the _Red Keep_. The pale stone was an extension of the natural cliff. Parts of it were formed from jagged rises of bedrock while the rest was neatly stacked blocks of granite which sparkled in the  fragmented sunlight. The wind rolled over the top and beat against the queen and her knight who followed closely behind. It helped clear the smoke which was now streaming to the South. Daenerys followed the wall all the way to the centre where an old watch platform sat abandoned with a short wall all that kept her from stumbling into the waves below.

“There is merit in Tyrion’s logic...” Jorah was forced to admit. He was still dripping blood. It followed him like a trail of breadcrumbs.

“So you agree with him?” She replied, her attention on the waves and the ships sinking into the depths of _Blackwater Bay_. “There was a time when you refused to agree with him on principle.”

“Everything from this point is about survival.” He reminded the queen. “How many times have we looked death in the face, you and I?” Jorah was careful not to approach. Like her dragons, she could snap. There were weeks there in the _Red Waste_ where he was certain that they’d join the sands, wandering forever across the desert as ghosts. “I will do it, if you command. Alone. I can take Viserion.”

Her silver hair rustled as she shook her head. “I am not going to ask you to burn an ancient house to the ground, Ser. That is not what you pledged when you offered me your sword. There is no honour in slaughter.” And he had worked  _so hard_ to regain his. “Dragons have no need of honour, so I will do it.  They already call me  _mad_ . ”

“I am coming with you.”

“No, you are not.”

“Khaleesi, _please-_ ”

Daenerys stopped him by turning and placing a hand on his chest. The armour plate was deformed with axe and blade marks. “Stay here. Keep an eye on Tyrion and Varys. I will not be alone. The bulk of the Tyrell army is at Highgarden. This Lord-”

“-Tarly...”

“Tarly. He will die and that will be that.”

Jorah reached up and placed his hand over hers, both of them on his chest. There was no heartbeat discernible through the steel, only the warmth from his flesh radiating into it, proving that he was alive. “Take Sam Tarly with you,” he offered instead. “He is the legal heir to the Horn Hill. If he is lord then you will gain an army as well as a removing a threat without breaking the laws of the realm.”

“A little less blood shed...”

“A touch more honour...”

Their peace was broken by a startled raven taking to the air.

*~*~*

“I – I _can’t_ be a lord...” Sam stammered. The queen had landed her dragon on the bank of the river. Alone, she cut a path to him.  Now he’d been picked out of the group like a snack. It was a common tactic among the cruellest men at _The Wall_.

“You will be what I command,” Daenerys reminded the frightened man. “When you came to me I let you live as a favour to my Northern knight, not because I had any special interest in you. Now I am offering you a chance to take your place as lord of your family home, a right which you were denied and you’ll not entertain the idea?”

“Ignoring the murder of my father and brother,” which for Sam was a very difficult thing to ignore. True, he didn’t _like_ either of them but they were his family. “I am Night’s Watch _and_ a maester. I’m not allowed to own land.”

“Or take a woman and have a child...”

Well… She had him there. “I can’t do it.”

“You _will_ do it.”  She softened slightly. “There is nothing I can do about your father’s life but your brother will be given the opportunity to take the Black. They need men at The Wall more than ever and I am confident that you will see him again. The rest of your family can remain in their home and most of your men will survive with their lives. Tarly… This is a gift. My advisors would have me burn it all. Is that what you prefer? Because I will do that, Tarly. I will take my dragon and I will reduce Horn Hill to a pile of cinders to light the evening sky if it means stopping a rebellion before it starts.”

“Of-of course not,” he replied softly, flashes of the horror filling his mind. There wasn’t a child in the realm that hadn’t heard the tales of Harrenhall. “But – Gilly… Little Sam… I cannot leave them here on their own. I made them a promise.”

Daenerys knew all about promise s . “I will make sure that you keep your promise.  Besides, is it not better to  have them safe inside Horn Hill’s walls instead of the front lines of war?  This is no place to raise a child.  You cannot think to march them into the snow. ”

“That’s not entirely it,” Sam finally admitted, with a forlorn look to his Northern king. “I left the citadel to find Jon. You see, I made a promise to him as well, that I’d help him and how can I do that if I’m all the way down at Horn Hill? It’s miles from anything - ‘cept Highgarden.”

“Ravens...” Daenerys hissed at him. “You are not a man of the sword. Continue your work for your Northern lord and hold the peace for me. And where’s that dragon of yours?”

“Oh that. Ash. She – ah, she flew off. Well _swam_ off, actually.”

“An entire army surrounds you and you _lost_ a dragon?”

All Sam could do was shrug. It wasn’t exactly  _his_ dragon.

“You will ride with me on Drogon,” Daenerys snapped, ignoring the utter panic spreading across his features, “and your woman and child will follow under guard.”

*~*~*

“It is the right thing ter do,” Jon assured Sam, laying his hand heavily on his friend’s shoulder. “I’d do the same, if I were her.”

“Bit ridiculous though, innit’?” Sam mused, barely able to conjure the image. “ _Me_ lord of Horn Hill. I can barely lift the bloody  family sword let alone defend the place from common thieves. What am I supposed to do in the middle of a war?” Sam whined helplessly. “Fight – that’d be a laugh. The only thing I’ve ever managed to kill was a Whitewalker.”

“You won’t have ter fight anyone. The Queen’s word is protection enough and if that fails, Highgarden is only a shout away.”

_That’s if they can see anything beyond their thorny walls_ , Sam thought, rather unkindly.  “And what are you going to do?” Sam eyed Jon sadly. “ Die again and again?” He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Speak to Quaithe while you are here.”

“I am _done_ with priestesses.”

“Not for her magic,” Sam insisted. “For her knowledge.”

Jon simply eyed the smouldering city,  considering .  In the end he gave no assurances.  “This conquest is happening,” he lowered his voice, “all we can do is limit how many die. We’re going to need every breathing soul to hold a sword. They are no good to us in the ground once the snow starts falling.  Then none of this will matter. ”

“It’ll never snow this far South.” Sam had expected a rebuff but Jon was worryingly silent. “So, are you doing a deal with the Targaryen queen – is that why you came?”

“My father used to say that you cannot reason with a sword. The only coin it takes is blood. The Targaryen is here to conquer the Seven Kingdoms but the North will never bend the knee to a dragon. I have to find a way through the impasse because part of her army is already at The Wall. She has brought more men than the North has ever seen from the lands across The Narrow Sea. This...” He waved his hand at the army around them, “is a fraction of what arrived at Eastwatch, hemming us in. There are more to the West, sailing the edge of the world like shadows.”

“That’s a good thing though, isn’ it? Men manning the abandoned castles?”

“Easterners,” Jon shook his head, “who will soon starve and turn to reeving. I have to know, Tarly, is this woman a ruler or a conqueror?” The question was not for Sam to answer. “The snows are getting heavier. We are running out of time. Can her word be trusted? You’ve spent time with her.”

“A _small amount_ of time.”

“Sam – please.”

“All right. All right… Yes. Far as I know the Queen honours her word and if she doesn’t the Mormont holds her to it.” Sam dipped his head. “I’ll do what I can in the South. Keep an eye on things.”

“Try not to get killed.”

“There’s always that. Don’t worry, Gilly will protect me. She’s fiercer than anything we’ll find in the snow. This – this better not be the last time I see you...”

“I’ll make sure that it’s not,” Jon promised.

* ~*~*

“Ah – easy...” Sam sized up the quivering beast. _Drogon_ was an immense wall of hostility, flexing his claws in the mud as he approached with a small swag of things. Gilly and Little Sam watched on, which meant that he had to be brave so as not to look the fool. There was a harness strapped around its belly but it was on its last buckle hole. Soon _Drogon_ would be too large to harness. Restraint or not, the dragon did not take kindly to the intrusion or the careful touch of Sam’s hand on his scales. “Oh – it’s warm...” He added, quite surprised. “I mean, I know they breathe fire an’ all but I didn’t expect to feel it.”

D aenerys remained in her blood soaked clothes. She was on the river bank with the Mormont knight on his knee in front of her, head dipped low and sad.

“You be a good dragon now,” Sam attempted to appeal to the creature’s honour. The _Unsullied_ held firm on its straps while Sam scaled the enormous mount. It was easier than he’d expected with large protrusions of bone acting as stairs and hand holds. _Drogon_ flinched but did not attempt to flick him off. The other two dragons circled over head. They’d returned to hunting _Blackwater Bay_ , picking corpses out of the water. Gilly blew him a kiss from below. The strange Dayne lingered nearby while Davos and Jon took another walk by the sea. Quaithe lingered at the tree line. Then, when the queen was ready, she vaulted onto _Drogon’s_ back and slid her feet into the holds of the saddle, shuffling against the leather. Next she lay forward, pressing her chest flat to the saddle and hissed Valyrian words to the beast.

* ~*~*

Jorah watched the dragon climb through the smoke, circle several times like an eagle climbing the thermals, then turn South and vanish over the forest. She’d be in Highgarden before morning. As soon as she was gone, Jorah strode toward the sea in search of the Stark. He found him seated on a volcanic rock, face to the sea – eyes closed. Yes, definitely a Stark but a dragon too.

“You can hear Mormonts coming,” Jon said, without opening his eyes. “A steady pair of feet, my father used to say. An axe over one shoulder and wolf pelt on the other.”

“Uncle,” Jorah clarified, leaving Jon in no doubt that he knew everything the queen knew. “Starks don’t belong in the South,” he warned.

“I do not intend to stay in the South,” Jon opened his eyes and looked up to the Mormont knight. He was taller than most men and broad. A nightmare in battle. “I am here to talk.”

“Ravens talk.”

“And who trusts the wings of a raven?” It was clear that Mormont would not sit so Jon stood, taking a few steps back so that he did not have to crane his neck to look him in the eye. “The last King in the North ordered your head to the gods. That oath belongs to me and I forgive it.”

Jorah understood what the young Stark was trying to do but only the Crown could forgive his debt and the queen had done that years ago. That said, it cost him nothing to dip his head in thanks. “That makes you more forgiving than my House. I will die an outsider.”

“Mormonts are sworn to the Starks. Your House helped us take Winterfell back from the terror of the Boltons. If it wasn’t for Mormonts the North would not be united. What are you doing, _Mormont_ , all the way down here on the arm of a dragon? There are many stories about you – many of them cruel but you are none of the things those whispers accuse.”

_Except the ones that claimed he’d laid with fire._ “ I am  _some_ of those things,” Jorah warned the wolf king.  It was difficult to look a Stark in the eye and lie. The blood that bound them ran thousands of years thick,  like fucking  _Weirwood_ sap . Whatever his heart, his soul belonged to the North and its kings. “I serve the queen  _and_ the North.  The two are not apart.”

“Is that why you were sighted at the Battle for Bear Island and the queen’s army landed at Eastwatch? Did you convince her to send men?”

Jorah shifted his weight immediately. “ Prince  Bu Gai landed at Eastwatch?” He looked to the  _Red Keep_ . He had to tell Varys at once. “I was not certain they would find their way across the Shivering Sea.  It has been months since we spoke. ”

“I am not a fool, Mormont. Your queen knows what walks beyond The Wall. She is headed North, as surely as the winter creeps South. I am here to make sure that the rivers stay white, not red.”

“A man hears many things,” Jorah crouched, taking a seat on the black rock. His blood dried over his skin in terrible stains. He wondered how he must look. A monster. A demon. They were all things he heard the children whisper as they cowered in the streets of _King’s Landing_.  There was nothing quite so soul destroying as the eyes of frightened children. “You died at The Wall and a red witch brought you back. What does that make you? I have a witch who can’t decide and a grandmaester who thinks you might be a walking god but I have seen gods and you are not one of them.” At this, the Stark laughed. “This amuses you?”

Jon shook his head and looked toward the bay where ships trailed left and right, one mass moving toward  _Dragonstone_ and the other sailing South. “How did two Northerners end up keeping company with priestesses from Asshai? What would our gods think – what would our fathers say...”

“I know what yours would say,” Jorah admitted, acknowledging a moment of kinship. He was careful not to let it linger. There were plenty of eyes watching. “My father, I am not so sure. It seems I did not know the man at all.”

Jon fixed Jorah with his half-dead eyes, reached forward and held his arm. “I was with ‘im when he died.” He felt the knight shift but Jon tightened his grip. “He wanted me ter find you and tell you-”

Jorah shook his head, dangerous. “Snow, you  _still_ your words.”

“-that he _forgives_ you.” Jon watched the knight’s head shake, rejecting the information.  His hands shifted to Jorah’s shoulders, pulling him down a fraction. “With his dying words. His thoughts were of you, his boy. He knew _exactly_ where you were and forgave.”

Finally, Jorah managed to meet the Northern King’s eye with his vision, albeit, blurred. When Tyrion delivered the news of his father’s death he’d been able to walk away and leave him on the beach. For the next week he’d had the expanse of cursed coastline and ruined  _Smoking Sea_ to keep his company. There was no running any more.  Indeed, the boy Snow was the breathing embodiment of mistakes that could not be outrun. “There was more.”

Jon nodded. “Aye. There was.”

“Why haven’t you said?”

“I’m not sure I agree with the Commander’s final wish.” Even as he said it, Jon realised he had no choice but to finish if he wanted to leave this conversation with all his limbs in their original sockets. “Commander Mormont wanted you to return to The Wall-”

“-he’ll get his wish then-”

“-and take The Black. Lead, I believe, as Commander of the Night’s Watch. That’d make you the thousandth man to stand on the cusp of Winter.”

I t was not the worst thing that Jorah had imagined his father wishing for his future – certainly it wasn’t the worst thing that he’d said to his face before he left.  The Stark boy released his hold and Jorah leaned back to a safe distance.  The air around them dropped a few degrees. “That salty bastard Thorne is Commander of The Night’s Watch. I heard he killed the last man to take his place.”

A smile cracked across Jon’s lips. “ It were my own fault, that business. Politics don’t come naturally to Starks, or so people keep tellin’ me. A few more words before the act might ‘ave helped.”

“I doubt that,” Jorah admitted. “Wildlings were never going to mix well with The Watch. My father was murdered for less. You’re not the only royal blood to step safely out of death. The Queen,” Jorah’s voice naturally dropped to a softer hue when he spoke of her, “she set herself in the heart of a fire that burned all through the night. After the screams from the witch died and there was nothing but bone and ash, Daenerys – barely a scrap of a woman, stood alone with her infant dragons. The gods watch both of you...”

“And what does _that_ mean?” Jon asked, honestly seeking an answer.

“It means that the Queen left me instructions to negotiate the battle lines for the coming war...”

_Drogon_ had become a dot upon the horizon, hovering beneath the clouds. Jon realised too late what Daenerys had done. She’d stolen away Sam, folded him under her wing  figuratively and literally . There was no need to utter a threat – it was implicit in her actions  and the glint of steel lingering in her knight’s eye .  In many ways she was an Eastern conqueror and everything the realm feared. The ways of  _Westeros_ would never be hers and the North would fear her out of spite. The old bear took out a leather-bound map and unfurled it across the smooth basalt rock at their feet.  It was unlike any he had seen with unnamed coastlines and land long since reclaimed by the sea. Sheets of ice covered the top half and worst of all, there was no great wall of ice to speak of.  Cities, now left as ruins or lost forever, were marked and named.

“What _here_?” Jon knelt, with a groan from his armour.

“We’re in rather a rush – what is it you Starks always say? _Winter is coming_.”

Jon believed it, with ash tumbling out of the air like snow.

* ~*~*

“Well _shit_. That’s a bit o’ a fucking sight.” Ser Davos tilted his head off to the side like a hungry seagull as he spied the Iron Throne at the back of the hall – Cersei’s body still seated in the grim chair.

Tyrion, surrounded by a cluster of  _Unsullied_ , turned to the intrusion. He looked the Onion Knight up and down then shook his head in shock. “Now I know for certain that the gods have a sense of humour.” Several of the guards felt for their spears, awaiting Tyrion’s command but the dwarf was happy enough to let the other man approach. “I take it we’re on the same side of the  war this time?”

“More or less,” Davos replied. “The details are a little vague but your Queen and my King aren’t at each other’s throats _yet_.” He stopped and looked past Tyrion to Cersei’s lifeless figure. Her skin had taken on a shade of blue – lips purple and eyes a deathly grey.

“Ah… You’re not sure what to say,” Tyrion picked up on the hesitation. “I know my brother is stationed in Winterfell and that you, no doubt, will see him again soon when your King returns to the North. You have a reliable reputation. I wonder if you could pass something onto him...”

“Depends on the price.”

“Gold?”

“I’ve no need of gold and I ‘ave no intention on causing strife. This why I’m ‘ere?”

“ _This_ – this has nothing to do with politics.” Tyrion withdrew the gold chain from his pocket and held it out. The final metal was stained with blood that matched the marks on Cersei’s neck. “ It belonged to my brother first. Admittedly a worthless trinket our mother took a fancy to. I want him to have it. I daren’t ask Daenerys.”

“I lost my boy because of your family – right here in the bay.”

Tyrion nodded. “I know. I was standing on the beach waiting for your ships.”

“And I heard the Wildfire was your doing. Monstrous stuff. It peeled the skin right off his bone before he hit the water. He didn’t deserve that. My boy.”

Tyrion flinched. He lowered his hand, beginning to withdraw the chain. What was he thinking, asking favours from a man in a right mind to murder him where he stood.

“Give me the bloody chain,” Davos reached for it.

“I thought-”

“War is a bastard of a thing,” Davos admitted. “Jon Snow came here to unite the kingdoms of Westeros. I’d be poor council indeed if I offended the dragon queen’s advisor.”

T yrion handed over the golden chain with a soft nod of thanks. “Is it true what the ravens said of the Baratheon princess?” A wash of pain, so deep and brutal cut across Ser Davos’ face that Tyrion didn’t require an answer. “Look,” added Tyrion, “I’m not sure if anyone has told your King but Arya Stark was travelling with us – from Braavos. Wild  creature , barely civilised. We intended to return her to Winterfell  eventually  but she vanished during the battle. The queen is not sure how to explain the situation to Snow without it sounding-”

“Suspicious.”

“I swear she up and vanished – not for the first time.”

“I’ll have a word,” Davos nodded. “What will happen here?”

Tyrion lifted his gaze to the throne room. “It’s not going to play host to a coronation any time soon…”

“You and I should toss that ugly pile of swords into the sea. Best place for it.”

“Setting aside how ridiculous I’d look shifting a pile of steel _someone_ has to sit on the throne.  No-” Tyrion waved off a goblet of wine offered by one of the _Unsullied_. “For what it’s worth, I  am sorry about the Stark girl. Starks are rarer than Valyrian steel at the present.”

*~*~*

Arya stayed hidden among the long grass. Seven foot high, it swayed with the onshore wind, rippling its golden seed heads in a maddening dance. They struck in the face over and over – catching in her hair where they left behind  golden snow . The ground was sodden. Layers of filth and death decomposed into a stinking mass. Every now and then she sank into a soft spot, wretched and pulled herself free.  There was a taste of blood that never left her lips and days that she forgot to eat after nights of imagined raw flesh and shrieking death.

The North beckoned. It was always there – a constant tug upon her soul. Its lure was in the wind and the smell of pine that travelled with it. She belonged in the snow but there were names on her list.

*~*~*

Tycho hesitated. He faced the field of wild wheat that grew like a weed along the shore. It shivered like a whore’s golden hair and smelled of their hovels stacked along the lowest  _Braavosi_ islands where the tide encroached. “ Someone is watching us.”

_Ash_ perched on Tommen’s right shoulder, hissing smoke like a demon from the underworld. His crimson skin shone as the sun made a final gasp of life, preparing to vanish into the distant mountains of the  _Westerlands_ . “Most probably,” Tommen agreed.

The only thing Tycho could do about it was grip a little harder onto his oar. “How long until we reach Rosby?”

“We’re not going to Rosby.”

A shadow of stubble drove Tycho mad with irritation. He attacked his face so often it had turned into a rash not helped by the terrible scar left by the dragon’s claws. The only thing halting infection was the salt air. “Your Grace-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Duskendale is too far.”

“Duskendale is a death trap for every type of king,” Tommen barely broke his stride across the sand. The water was high but the beach had widened. “I had a cat, in the palace.” He continued, appearing to change topics entirely. “Ser Pounce. Mad old thing. I can happily say that he was my greatest friend.” The dragon on his shoulder snapped angrily in protest. “Now he is alone in a castle full of soldiers in a city that will starve before the week is out. Tonight I will pray that he is dead because if he’s not, he’ll be skinned and eaten by the few hundred souls left alive after the fire. He is only a cat, Tycho but if I thought there was any true hope of saving him from that fate I’d crawl right back to where we started and take him from that place myself.” He could not even find tears. He’d misplaced them. “You have to find friends where you can – certainly I would not find a companion in my brother. There were palace guards whom I shared more words with. My sister, I barely knew. She wrote to me sometimes from her cage in Dorne. She liked it well enough until the seed turned to poison.” None of which explained where they were going to find a bed once the sun set. “I was never intended to rule,” Tommen clarified. “I was quiet – kept out of the way. I played in the muck at low tide in the shadow of the Red Keep. I wanted to be a soldier like-” _his true father_ , “-but I was awfully small.”

T ycho and the dragon shared a moment. The tiny crimson thing eyed him hungrily. Tycho fell back a step or two to be safe. “I dare say you have some growing left in your bones.”

“Do you have children?”

“Yes. Not the promising investment I had once hoped. My fault, I imagine. I raised them around gold and was surprised to discover it had cast a spell over them. Witchcraft stronger than anything those Red creatures peddle in the market. Your Grace, where does this road lead us?” He returned their attention to the failing light and endless curve of swamp against the beach.

Tommen felt the dragon’s tail flick from side to side against his chest. “I met several crabbers who came to the base of the Red Keep. They live beyond that cluster of rock there.” Tommen pointed to a remnant of cliff, long collapsed into the bay. It was black like the rest of the rock beneath the water only these pieces had striking white stripes like veins. “ These people will give us shelter for the night.  They may even have a boat.”

* ~*~*

Evening set upon the water. The waves died into a silken lull, undulating against the boat. It sat on the water like glass with a shadow drawn by the rising moon. Longer and longer, it stretched toward the cliffs. A black mist lay across the water to the North, suffocating  _Black Water Bay_ . Shrill cries from gulls and crows alike filled the night as they feasted on the corpses. Ships continued to appear from within its depths. First a mast, held like bannerman’s spear, then slack ened sails  gasping for a breath of w ind .

Olenna laid against the ship’s rail, her wrinkled hands worrying an arrowhead caught in the wood.  _King’s Landing_ was a glow in the heart of the filthy smoke. It continued to burn,  lording over the sky like a sun refusing to be put to bed.

“I have seen my share of horrors,” Olenna spoke with a voice cracked from age, “but it has been a long time indeed since any one has watched a civilisation crumble into the sea. It is as if the gods themselves came for it.”

Black Scale approached the old woman with the same detachment that he did with all free born. He stopped a few feet from the rail and looked impassively at the layer of smoke on the water. “This one has seen the thing of which you speak. When this boat left Meereen the walls were alight with boat oil. Cursed people climbed their height with their bare hands. They breached the ancient city and slaughtered everything inside. Some say that their screams followed us across the Narrow Sea.”

Olenna leaned backwards on the rail and eyed the foreign warrior. Oh yes, he was a fine example of his kind. Tall, strong with frightening eyes and scars down both his arms, golden in the light from the ship’s lanterns. “Not many ravens cross those seas,” Olenna admitted, “leaving it to pirates and tradesmen to carry stories from the East.”

“They are most likely true,” Black Scale answered her unasked question. “One cannot improve on the mutterings from Hell.”

Olenna tilted her head slightly. “You’re a difficult creature to read,” she admitted. “Generally I’m rather good when it comes to such things.”

“I am Unsullied,” Black Scale repeated, with all the warmth of an ice sheet crashing into the sea. “We are swords, spears, shields and boots.”

“Of _course_ you are.” Except Olenna saw what others could not. “I knew a boy like you once. A farmer’s issue. He was strong and brave – scaling the thorned walls of Highgarden nightly to steal lemons from the terraces. I was a young queen, pregnant with little to do but stare out from my castle window and watch his nightly run. They were sickly things anyway – the lemons. There’s too much fog rolling in from the Sunset Sea – brings the rot. One night he was caught inside the terraced garden with a bag full of lemons by Ser Norridge who hung around the castle like a curse. He was in a foul mood and set about making an example of the poor farmer’s boy. He took the same thing that was taken from you,” Olenna nodded at the smooth fold of leather across Black Scale’s crotch, “and the boy never came to the gardens again. It was years before I heard what became of him. He and two others attacked Princess Aelora Targaryen – drove the poor girl to her death – and incited a rebellion. They didn’t win the rebellion, the farm boy but he _did_ drive a sword through the knight’s neck, severing it just enough so that Norridge could watch the man he loved torn to pieces in the mud.” Olenna paused, gripping the rail with more strength than one might guess was left in her old bones. There was life enough left in them to wrap around a throat or two. “I do not, for one minute, buy into the mantra of slavers.” And she would never be so foolish as to trust a tortured soul. “What was it that you wanted?”

Black Scale’s face remained vacant. He presented a perfect façade to the world – a slab of marble that might belong to a king’s hall. “There is someone here to see you.”

Her visitor waited in one of the rooms below deck. A single lantern hung from the wall of the small cabin which was haphazardly filled with uncoiled rope and broken weapons from the battle, tossed out of sight. Olenna closed the door behind her and eyed the figure lingering by the solitary porthole. He was staring at darkness.

“At last, a little privacy.” Olenna began.

Daario walked away from the porthole. His wounds were untreated – their blood dried in dark smears against his skin. He smelled of sweat and rotten fish while mud stained his pants all the way to his knees. “I have come to tell you that Cersei Lannister is dead.”

“Thank the gods for small mercies,” she replied, with genuine satisfaction. “The boy?”

“The boy is what I have come to discuss.”

“Oh dear, have you done something unwise? How terribly predictable.”

“Neither the mistake nor the solution are entirely my design. You and I can both agree that Tommen’s hours in this world are numbered without help.”

“Tommen was not part of our arrangement. If my daughter is to marry the Dornish prince, she cannot have a Lannister husband strolling about the wilderness.”

“It has been suggested that he could be your guest. Highgarden’s walls are high, so high I’ve heard it said that its people are _invisible_.”

“I am not a larder for orphan kings. What possible use could the Targaryen girl have for keeping her rival alive? Oh… I see.” Olenna read the truth in Daario’s face. It was not hard, the man was perfectly transparent. “This is your little secret – who else?”

“Mormont, Varys and I guess Tyrion will find out sooner or later, he always does.”

She was silent for a very long time, watching the light inside the lantern wither. There was so much soot stuck on the inside of the glass that it barely left enough light to see the edges of the room whose contents creaked with the rocking of the hull. They were entering rougher waters, whipped up near the cliffs which could only mean that they were passing _Sharp Point_. “I take it you did not come here with an empty purse.”

“Tommen is insurance. Tides change fast in times like these and royal blood has value.”

“You know very well that this boat is headed directly to Dorne. Even if I was to say yes, which I have not, how do you propose to transport Tommen to Highgarden without the queen noticing?”

“Is it a yes? I cannot sail with you beyond this hour and we cannot entrust the answer to a raven.”

Her reply was the slightest nod. “The boy treated my daughter well, earning his survival,” Olenna added. “There are very few people who have and even fewer kings. I warn you, if this little accord of ours threatens our line to the throne, I’ll cut the boy loose like the frost to the rose.”

*~*~*

Margaery lay in a pile of sheets, facing the wall of her cabin. Tears dripped along her cheek and faded into the cotton in an endless stream. She’d never been _in love_ with Tommen. How could she? A boy king she’d seduced for position at her grandmother’s request… Still she found herself gripped by a profound sadness. She did not hear Olenna come in, only noticing her presence when the bed dipped and a gentle hand stroked down her arm.

“There is news – I saw the pirate...”

Olenna gripped her granddaughter’s arm lightly. “Yes dear. There is news.”

Margaery fixed her gaze on a single nail set into the wood. It was all she could do to steel her nerves. “You have to say it.”

“My dear, you are a Tyrell once more.”

Margaery buried her head in the sheets and wept.

“Sh...” Olenna whispered. “There is a prince waiting for you. Two weeks from now you’ll feel the familiar weight of a crown upon your head and the sturdy walls of an ancient palace to protect you. Dorne is the safest place during the Winter. It has never snowed on the sands. Finally, my dear, perhaps you will be happy.”

###  **CASTLE BLACK – THE WALL**

**299 AC**

J eor waited in the cavernous tunnels beneath  _The Wall_ . The  ice around him sweated in the heat , lit by his torch and a strange glow that seemed to come from within the ice.  Summer. Days and days with nothing but endless blue and drizzling rain creating pools of mud around the castle. Bone caught the light beneath his feet. He tried not to look. There were plenty of bodies buried underfoot from centuries of a violence. Part of him thought it was to scare off  _Wildlings_ foolish enough to test the fortifications.  Another, louder part realised that he was getting on in the world and everything seemed just that little bit more  _grey_ .

A crow scattered from its perch at the edge of the  _Haunted Forest_ . It cawed blackly at the sky. A few minutes later, Jeor heard footsteps enter the tunnel and he knew it was time.

“It has always bothered me,” Jeor said to the man as he approached, “these passages. They run all through The Wall, from the Bay of Ice to the foul waters of Skagos. The bloody thing is riddled with them. A broken fucking net. You know what use a broken net is to a fisherman? Fuck all. What good is a wall of ice if it’s full of damn tunnels?”

Mance Rayder was getting slower. Injuries stacked upon each other but it was nothing compared to the hell of trying to coerce tribal forces to march behind one purpose. A smart man would have given up the futile cause a decade ago but he’d felt the chill of Winter in the hills behind  _Thenn_ . “That all depends on what it’s trying t er keep out.”

“Not you, old friend,” Jeor replied. He was a bear unable to smile but he lifted his torch in a form of greeting. “It takes more than a mile of ice to stop the King Beyond The Wall. You are late. I worried. Thought maybe one of them white bears finally got the better of you.”

“One of your damn raiding parties, more like,” Mance replied.

“They were meant to return a week ago but they crossed a herd of snow-deer. Not even the gods could pull a pack of hungry men back from a meal.”

“We share that problem in our men,” Mance assured him, before adding, “I rode from Craster’s Keep, there was some trouble up there last month. The old cunt didn’t say much but a few of his women were weeping in the outskirts of the forest, looking for their children. Five in a year, left out in the snow and gone in the morning. All boys. Sacrifices, the women say, to the ice demons. They are closer than you think, Jeor.”

The Lord Commander did not doubt the king for a moment. Mance was many things, a liar was not one of them. “Why not attack? Neither you nor I could stop the army of the dead  i f they marched in earnest.  What the hell keeps them? ”

“Speak for yourselves...” Mance riled. “But you are right, old bear. They are waiting for something. Perhaps they too have gods who must be obeyed.”

“Or it could be the heat,” Mormont offered, with a moment of levity as he wiped his brow. They were both sweating so hard there’d be puddles at their boots soon. “You didn’t come all this way to do a raven’s work.”

“Don’t make me ask.”

Jeor sighed. The Northern realm feared Mance as a witch-god, a monster that lived at the edge of the world and yet here he was, reduced to cowering in the darkness, whispering requests. “It is as I said,” Jeor replied softly, “the boy is safe in the South. He’ll grow up literate with a full belly away from these troubles.  No one will ever know who he is, especially not him. ”

Mance dropped his head in a nod. He wished there was more. “And his mother?”

“Fighting battles that don’t belong to her in the South. My niece enjoys the distraction of the blade. She always had Black blood.”

“Runs thick in these parts,” Mance agreed. “The warg kings of old are in her eyes. Not yours. Yours are grey like the sea in heavy fog.” The King Beyond The Wall placed his hand against the ice wall. There were hundreds of slender roots beneath, knit like cloth. “You ‘ave to let us through, old man.”

“Can’t do, Mance – you know that.”

“We’re fish in a fuckin’ barrel. We can’t fight this war alone. You’ll face us one way or another, better we be breathing.”

“I told you, you ‘ave to _wait_ ,” Jeor implored him. “I’ve sent them ravens you asked, to the citadel an’ all, requesting a stay for all Freefolk but I ain’ got nothing back. It’s like the dead live here already. Their silence is everywhere. The realm is full of old men and dusty scrolls they’ve never bothered to read. If they did they’d know what’s comin’. Give me time, Mance, I’ll talk The Watch around, on me own if I ‘ave to. If yer push this too fast we’ll both lose good men an’ neither of us can suffer that. We are fuckin’ twigs on a dead pine at the moment.”

“You better be right,” Mance began his withdrawal. “For _all_ our fates are in your  grasp, take care you do not hold on so long that you crush us.”

L ater, Jeor climbed to the top of  _The Wall_ and stared into the  _Lands of Always Winter_ . He picked out the fires which dotted the  _Haunted Forest_ and more that sat along the flanks of the  _Frost Fangs_ . Tiny clusters of humanity survived knowing full well that they were being hunted by Death. Jeor could see that too, brewing at the edge of the view. Clouds of snow, whipped into a frenzy that marched along the earth in perfect silence.

From the forest emerged his lost raiding party. They rode into the open, crossing the ice field that sat in front of  _The Wall_ . From this height, they were little better than wandering stars upon the night.  How pathetically small they all were when viewed from such height. Did the gods look down with passive amusement or were they beneath the earth, clawing their way up toward the light?

* ~*~*

“You mad, blind o’l bastard – where ‘ave you been then?” Commander Jeor Mormont asked, when he found the ancient dragon curled up by the fire in his office, staring sightlessly into the flames. He was well used to the company of odd creatures. His crow was the same – not two words of sense strung together and wholly uninvited. Of course, he fed the crow first, tossing the feathered creature a few scraps of bread which it hopped around, pecking at the table. “I don’t know what it is that you come here to say, Maester Aemon. There isn’t a lecture, warning, praise or chastise left to give after all these years.”

“My family are dreamers...” His withered voice drawled, barely above a whisper. “Their souls burning so hot as to piece the fabric of time that binds our world together with the next. Such horrors they saw, in the flames.”

Jeor decided that he needed something to drink if was going to be  _this_ kind of a conversation. He fished out a pitcher of near-rancid wine and  poured it into a mug. The shit wasn’t even good for cooking with but the war in the South played havoc on their already strained supply routes. “Agreed there,” the bear replied, lowering himself into the chair behind his desk. It groaned under the weight of Jeor’s black cloak which he’d left on. “My wife used to say that nothing good came from dreamers. It didn’t matter to her whether these things were seen in the flames, ocean or roots of the white trees – she distrusted it all. Said it was a curse sent from the gods to lead us into night.” He risked a sip of the wine. Not too bad. Better than the bread. “I am starting to think she might ‘ave been right about the whole bloody thing.”

“The trees are different, Brynden used to say.” Aemon continued.

J eor could have sworn the fire whispered something foul – sparks curling in showers of cinder – black smoke coating the inside of the chimney with oil. Pine up this far North was rich in it. All the boatmen of  _Bear Island_ knew not to carry open flame too close to the hull. “That  moon-bred who went North?” Jeor clarified. Targaryens bred like dragons with clutches of young. They’d never be truly gone from the world because they were woven into its fabric.

“There’s a tree, grown over an outcrop with a view of the ice fields… White limbs bowed like silver hair and red leaves shed -”

“-shed like Southern vows.” Benjen Stark finished, strolling into the Commander’s office unannounced. “I’ve seen it in the flesh. Did your scrolls tell you about the stink, I wonder? Around its roots are half-rotten corpses and black feathers, frozen in fresh snow. It is a place of death.”

“If it weren’t for your father’s honour, boy, I’d send you to that freezing Eastwatch perch.”

Benjen helped himself to the Mormont’s wine and pulled a chair to the fire, sitting beside the blind maester. “Horse shit. I am the best ranger you ‘ave and you know it.”

“Perhaps not the most modest.” There was little Jeor could do as the young Stark settled in. “You are days late,” he added, in caution.

“And I’ve brought a feast. If you opened your door a little more often you’d ‘ear them singing and drinking – a proper Northern do.”

“Wolves are ghosts, Benjen,” Jeor warned. “If they start to make a meal out of everything they come across something larger will come along.”

“As I am _sure_ you know, it wasn’t the deer that kept me. The Haunted Forest is thick with Wildlings. They’re crawling in every stand of pines and further out, where the ice flattens and the mountains start, they are building forces. We saw their fires at night, up and down the flanks of the mountains. Hundreds of them. I reckon the whole god-damn lot of ‘em are descending on The Wall. You seem awfully calm about it – like it doesn’t surprise you at all.”

Jeor was  _silent_ . He’d been a fool to think that a ranger as smart as Benjen wouldn’t uncover the truth. “Did you find what I sent you for?”

A deep sigh followed by a rasping cough. The cold had settled in his lungs. “Fuck knows where it is,” Benjen replied. “We’re all searching for the same thing. I’m tellin’ you. If the Horne of Winter was out there, one of of us would ‘ave found it. If it was ever real, it’s gone.”

Jeor shook his head. “Then you ‘ave to go further North,” he insisted. “If we don’t find it,  _they’ll_ find it and then that’s the end of us all. An’ next time you stay on task. There’ll be plenty of time ter hunt Wildlings.”

“I ain’ hunting Wildlings...” Benjen defended. “I told yer before. We need ter go _deeper_ , beyond the Milkwater – see what’s behind them mountains. The only advantage we’re going ter get against those dead fucks is the one we find ourselves. We learn nothing, squabbling with Wildfolk and hunting game in the fringes of the forest. Let me have a dozen men – half that if you won’t spare the number.”

“Every Crow who’s _ever_ ranged beyond the valley died there. Only the Thenn know those mountains and they’ll hang your entrails over the frost and read their godless fortune in their steaming patterns.”

Benjen wasn’t having that. “Commander, the answers you seek are in the wastelands of ice – not the maester’s scrolls. No one has lived to write them down – or even whisper them to the wind.  I am going to go, with or without the men.”

J eor doubted that he had a choice. There was darkness in Benjen’s eyes – the mirror of his father’s. As they said in the North, ‘the will of a Stark was stronger than the storm’.

“Let them rest a week at least,” Jeor implored him. “They’ll need full bellies and heavy swords. I pray to the Old Gods that you find nothing but ice and snow.” For if he stumbled upon the frozen city, that hour would be his last.


	91. Fresh Ice

 

###  **DRAGONSTONE – BLACKWATER BAY**

What was left of Ser Willem Darry folded into the rough edge of the island where a mess of boulders lay sharp and untouched by the weather. Uneven, they’d spent centuries rolling down an ash flank on the Western side of _Dragonmount_ and locked together at the bottom, many of them tumbling lazily into the bay. Miles and miles of the island carried on in this fashion of violence – one inhospitable vista after the next. Barefoot, Darry wedged himself firm then stared sightlessly toward _King’s Landing_. Spray coated his skin. Age may have left his eyes vacant but the old knight inhaled deeply and found the ghost of flames in the air. Dragons, mournful, wept. Their wings left a murmur on the wind. Buildings fell. Walls tumbled. Gulls shrieked. A thousand footsteps trampled the marsh on the opposing shore. He remembered the taste of war on his lips and how it must look. Always the same... Ships choking _Blackwater Bay_ and men drowning in her waves. Scavengers picking their bones clean. Death never changed her face. All it did was shift between masks, tricking men to their death and the pit of endless silence.

 _She’ll be coming now,_ Darry realised, _with a smile._

_Dragonmount_ quivered underfoot. Boulders knocked about. A few fell into the water with a splash of salt. There was heat beneath his feet – fire stirring. The gods, he feared, were waking from their thousand years of sleep.

###  **KING’S LANDING – WESTEROS**

The silk shed dust as it unravelled, tumbling endlessly as it unfurled against the stone. A Targaryen banner, draped over the _Red Keep’_ _s_ exterior in a stain of victory _._ Down it went, cut like a wound. Its trio of red embroidered dragons had their mouths agape in an endless roar echoed by two of their breathing counterparts who spent the early evening sweeping low circles over _Blackwater Bay_. The moon hid, unwilling to grace the sky leaving the stars and dying fires to light the smoke so thick this could have been twilight in _Asshai._

“A suspicious man might take the view that you have been hiding these last hours.”

Varys sunk his hands deep inside his sleeves. He stank of the rancid city. Proximity to its dispossessed sullied his person and dredged up dreadful memories. In some ways Varys would always be the _Lysian_ beggar child – hand held out in wait of a stray coin. Depravity within poverty – it fed upon itself and festered at the edges of the city. “Vulgarity does not suit you, my friend.” He rebuffed Tyrion. “Truly is there nowhere else to meet? Must we _always_ stand in the presence of your sister’s corpse? The reality of death is not so smooth and angelic as the marble statues lining the hall. All those frozen bodies, carved and polished into something reaching for perfection… It makes you wonder how the talented eye could create a thing so deceitful.”

Tyrion purposely kept his gaze away from his sister. Each hour dragged Cersei Lannister further into the throne as if it were trying to consume her bones and add them to its display of charred swords. A few _Dothraki_ blood riders wandered around the enormous room, heads craned to marvel at the ceiling, part of which had collapsed. Stars lay beyond and flashes of light from a nearby storm. Giant iron urns had been dragged in to flood the room with firelight. The process left scars on the once beautiful granite floors which were all but ruined along with everything else of elegance and indulgence in the empire. Soon, little would separate the nomadic empires of the East from the Western fortresses.

“Daenerys decided to leave things as they are until she returns from Highgarden. That includes my recently departed kin.”

“Presumably issuing a morbid warning to any nobles considering a usurping of their own. It helps, I believe, to let the wavering glimpse their fate.”

“A trick common to _many_. Why else do the Red Priestesses build pyres in the streets of Volantis or Northern kings take the heads of traitors themselves? _Power_. Make the common folk watch blood drip from their hands. I’ll not reproach our Queen for endorsing well rehearsed methods. She was born in the stranglehold of brutality.” Tyrion ran his hand across his face – tired or weary, it was difficult to tell. “I admit,” he conceded, “that I do not enjoy it any more than you. Less so, I’d imagine but neither of us are in a position to tempt the Queen’s patience. Speaking of which, did you locate Tommen?”

“There is no one left to whisper in this city,” Varys complained. “All my birds have lost their wings. If Tommen is alive he will wash up with the tide. No… I returned for two reasons. Firstly, our gracious Lord Loras Tyrell has come to collect his payment.”

“No surprises there.”

“Quite. He is lingering nearby licking his wounds. Secondly, the Eastern savages which the Queen met on the edge of the Grey Waste have arrived in the North and taken possession of Eastwatch by the Sea.”

Colour Tyrion genuinely shocked. He gaped dumbly at Varys before stammering a reply. “To tell you the truth, Varys, I was beginning to think they were either dead or a fabrication.”

“In my experience, the Queen is many things – a fantasist is not one of them.” Whatever Varys dreamed the conquest of _Westeros_ to be like, this wasn’t it. Not even close. “Based on this turn of fortune’s wheel, I presume we can expect the second wing of her unholy fleet to arrive in the West – led by rebellious Greyjoys.”

“That is _a lot_ of men...”

“Women and children,” Varys elaborated. “More than half a million at the outset and they have _all_ come with bugger all in their ships. They will ensconce themselves in the North without a leader or consent of the local tribes. We must be cautious or a war we did not plan might catch alight.”

“Write to the Northern Lords and the Night’s Watch. Inform them of our intent to broker peace and then let us pray that everyone is too cold and tired to pick up a sword. _Lord Tyrell..._ ”

Loras Tyrell entered clad in battle armour. It had been washed but dents from recent blades scarred its surface. One extended into a line of stitches that trailed painfully up the young man’s neck. His blue cape fanned out as he stopped, catching flecks of ash which continued to spill through the open roof. The hall had cracked open like an egg. He could only guess at what it had birthed... Loras ignored the corpse, broken coloured glass and piles of rubble from the ceiling. A passing _Dothraki_ caught his eye but it was little more than a fleeting glance. “Lord Varys, Tyrion...” He bowed his head just enough. It was impossible to expect that they would ever be ‘friendly’.

“Drink?” Offered Tyrion.

“Moments like these call for sobriety.”

“Ah well...” Tyrion replied, not certain if he was relieved or concerned by the young man’s resolve. Those eyes were _cold_. “These last few days I’ve had my first sober look at the world since I was a child.”

“What do you make of it, Lord Tyrion, this world that we have built?”

“That my childhood horrors were as real as the ash at our feet. If I live through this war I am going to find myself a patch of land in the Westerlands, where the mountains touch the sea and the earth is red. Plant a few vines. Build a house out of pine – and no fucking birds. I cannot weather the caw of ravens.”

“I shall give you the vines, Lannister, if it means and end to the violence.”

Varys was not entirely certain what had transpired between the silent pair but he dared to hope that it was a _beginning_. He cleared his throat, stepped forward and showed Loras the paperwork which was so fresh the ink smudged as it was presented. The only part of its contents Loras riled at was the suggestion of imminent marriage but there was no point debating the condition as it had been written by his grandmother’s hand.

Handing Loras a quill, Tyrion said, “As promised, caretaker of the Seven Kingdoms – to hold the throne in trust while the Queen attends to wars in the North. Do you so swear-” and so it continued, the ancient words that transformed a Lord into a god. They were well rehearsed passages, witnessed by a handful of disinterested horselords who pried gemstones from the pillars. They popped free and bounced on the floor like hail. In the East, only the cursed accepted power as a gift.

When it was done, Loras approached the Iron Throne. Cersei Lannister – what was left of the flesh framed by a halo of burned swords. It was their blades that held his attention. Some of their pummels were intact. On them he saw sigils of lost Houses. Closer – Loras reached out and placed his palm on the throne where several swords were interlocked, all bearing the ancient Gardener ‘hand’. “She was the worst of us.” He hissed instead. “A creature so vile not even the gods want to take her into the underworld. I fear that Cersei is but a taste of what we face. How many times have we finished a battle only to ride onto a field made of fire? Dragons _are_ fire. It is in their blood. It is all they have ever known. They fascinate us. We revel in their dance and take a few turns in their arms but while they spin and laugh the rest of us are left to watch our skin melt away. Our castles blacken. Thousands scream and die.” Then he cast his eyes around the throne room and all the horror that had played out. “If I were King and not Caretaker, I’d tear this place down, stone by stone. It is the only way to strip the centuries of tyranny that led to this moment. You feel it too,” he addressed Varys and Tyrion. “Shrinking away from what happened today but you are smart men. You can see the moves of this game unfolding...” Loras could as well. He imagined death dripping from every surface like wax down a candle. Why else had they manoeuvred him toward the throne?

“Loras, you are a true Tyrell,” Varys nodded plaintively. “Despite all your suffering, there remains a passion for life. Injury prunes your will. I dare say that the realm would look quite different today if your marriage to Sansa Stark had proceeded. Alas, she is married to a Royce.”

“You may inform the Queen that it is my intention to rebuild King’s Landing and fashion it into an outpost of safety. If her wars are unsuccessful, we will be ready to receive the survivors in the South. On that, you have my word. I’ve had enough of killing.” Renly’s glass eyes followed Loras wherever he went. “Now if you’ll excuse me, we are clearing bodies from the streets while ravens fly to Highgarden, waiting on news of the brewing battle. That treacherous Tarly has it in his mind the Targaryen queen wants his head on a spike. There’s no reasoning with him. He can’t stand the shame of backing the losing side.”

“Oddly,” said Varys, long after Loras vanished into the night, “I believe every silken word. He spins beautiful threads.”

“He was thrown onto the board of kings,” Tyrion agreed, “and he’ll wear a crown of thorns.”

“A shame... Now that the smoke has cleared,” he changed the subject, directing Tyrion’s attention elsewhere, “the damage to the city is not half so bad as we imagined. The North-Western edge is mostly intact. We have sent healers and Unsullied to secure every access point and government building along that front. The Gate of the Gods has been converted into a rally point for survivors. Many have returned from the surrounding fields and I felt a storm build late in the afternoon. It may set upon us in the next few days. I am certain the homeless will want to find shelter before the rains start. The Dragon Pit would be preferable but the interior is, as the pirates say, _grim_. Sparrows everywhere – all in bits by their own hand.”

“You’ll forgive me if I save my tears.” Logistics was Tyrion’s talent. He directed Varys to a map of the city – a war schematic he’d dragged out of his old desk. “What about the fortifications beneath the outer wall?”

Varys frowned. “I do not follow.”

“The _tunnels_ , Varys.” He ran his finger along the parchment. “There are a great many of them. If memory serves they run from one end of the city to the next.”

“I _follow_ that there are military passages inside King’s Landing’s barricade. What I do not follow is your point.”

“I have been inside them on many occasions – some of them more intimately than I would have liked while my nephew sat on the throne and enraged every lord from here to Winterfell. I had them stocked and repaired in case of a siege. There is room inside for hundreds if not _thousands_ to wait out the storm.”

For a moment Varys wondered if Tyrion’s compassion was a true weakness – a character defect that might get him killed. “They are _secure_ fortresses,” Varys replied carefully, as if he shouldn’t have to press that point. “We are dangling over the edge of a war we cannot predict and you want to fill the scaffolding with peasants...”

“Don’t be difficult. I’ve got a headache and the best part of a chill.” There was also something about burnt flesh in the air that left him nauseous. “Please just _go_ and do whatever it is that you do to make things happen. By the time the Queen returns we need to have this _situation_ under control.”

“I am many things, Lord Tyrion – the string of a bow I am not.” Although they both knew Varys would relent to Tyrion’s order. All Tyrion had to do was whisper rumours of Faceless gods and his flesh would meet the flame once more. “All right...” Varys finally agreed. “But do me a favour.” He leaned down and whispered. _“_ _Stop those savages from snitching every relic of worth in the empire. A victory over ourselves is a defeat. What dignity we have left is filling their pockets.”_

*~*~*

Jorah had never walked through the terraced gardens that wrapped around the Northern edge of the _Red Keep_. The cascade of low granite walls stepped lazily down toward _Blackwater Bay_ in a maze of orchids and floral embellishments, fountains and bowers providing cover for the wicked creatures that usually nested in their depths, plotting.

The night fell fast and by the time he reached the lemon grove the stars had found their way through gaps in the smoke – most of which had been pushed down onto the bay by cool air. It concealed the water except for the masts of ships. _Like the smoking ruins of Valyria_ , Jorah thought, leaning on the low stone wall. A cursory rumble from _Dragonmount_ added to the ruinous vista. He wondered if the great black peak might open its throat and pour fire over the world. Erase all that they had done. Return this place to the sea and its black gods.

He ran his fingers through the ash coating the wall. Flecks tumbled from nowhere, chasing each other like dragons spiralling in thermals. They blurred with hellish dreams of ice locking _Ironman’s Bay_ and the _Seagard_ vanishing in a white mist, thickening and curling around its high, barbaric walls – waves whipped into a frenzy at its feet…

Jorah steadied himself. From this particular terrace, looking North toward _Dragonstone_ , Jorah could almost pretend that the city had survived. The destruction was concentrated in the South where fires continued to burn. He could hear them clawing and consuming. Here in the garden he was comforted by the rustle of leaves and soft hooting of dwarf owls.

He took a seat on the roughly cut steps. A lemon tree, strong and thick with Summer growth, drooped low. The bitter scent of citrus tainted the air. Jorah closed his eyes and thought of his father – tried to imagine him as a younger man dragging a pair of dragon children half way across the world. Keeping them in _Braavos_ amid the tidal city and ancient groves that made do with floating islands of coral and salt-edged rain. Daenerys did not speak of this time and so he was left to wonder how the children were raised… Not as warriors. As scholars, perhaps – or were they schooled in his father’s love of common sense? There wasn’t enough of that in the world. More than that, Jorah wondered _why._ Why had his family taken this path of muddy streams, weaving dangerous tracks around the Targaryens over and over...

“These are strange gardens...”

“Aye,” Jorah replied, unsurprised by Jon’s heavy footsteps. Starks lacked the stealth of their wolf brethren. They moved as if they owned the world while bears crept with ears pricked to danger – enormous creatures invisible in the snow. “They are nothing like the cliff grove at Bear Island, or the Winterfell Godswood. Southern folk admire conformity and so they tie their vines with string and train them into unnatural shapes.”

“But _why_?” Jon asked, honestly. “I do not understand it.”

“Boredom, perhaps. Death does not breath so close to their fine necks. These fruit trees are not picked by starving hands. They are left as ornaments to rot.”

Jon accepted that answer and leaned against the low wall. Even reclined Jorah Mormont was enormous. Jon could easily imagine him in the midst of the rebellion, sword raised in the thick of battle. He heard that the knight once cut a man near in half with a single strike. “I er…” Jon shifted as his throat caught the words. They had not finished their earlier conversation. “Wanted ‘ter say something an yer don’ ‘ave to reply.” In fact, he preferred if he didn’t. “Lady Lyanna Mormont is quite young in the world but when I came ter stand before her she reminded me of words that should never ‘ave been forgotten. Words between our fathers’ fathers’ fathers... You and I, our lonely houses, they ‘ave shared loyalty for longer than _any_. Our kind ‘ave lived at the edge of nothing and endured Winters that most kingdoms can’t remember. There are people in the North who will call you a traitor for standing beside the Targaryen queen. More, I imagine, who’ll call you harsher things than that when they hear of this day and the dead buried in the sky.”

Jorah held his silence. The dead were in his lungs. True, there was fire in Jon’s blood but he had the voice of Stark Kings. A steady, tone. The warmth, they used to say, in the snow. It ran strong in his veins – the North vanquishing all else.

“But you were once Lord of Bear Island and, without question, you are your father’s son. I believe you echo the Lady Lyanna’s words – that you are loyal ter the North. I ‘aven’t been ‘ere long enough ter know if yer love this dragon queen like they say but your heart has pieces of ice that fire can’t touch.” Jon knew _exactly_ what ice felt like. Stubborn loyalty to the point of absurdity. “I cannot bring myself to trust the daughter of the Mad King. Ned Stark refused to murder her as a child but I doubt he’d ‘ave followed her into war either. Instead, I am trusting _you_. The North is trusting a Mormont’s word. I wanted you ter know that.”

Jorah flinched as ash clipped his eye. He didn’t _want_ people looking up to him. All that had been surrendered long ago. “I am like _my mother_ ,” Jorah corrected, voice low. “My father always used to say. He did not like ter look at me too long because I ‘ave her eyes. _Endless like the sea._ His words. I look to the water when I think of her. He told me that they set her on a boat, laid as if asleep and let it drift into the Bay of Ice where it was set alight by a single arrow from my father’s bow. There she burned and sank under the waves.” Jorah shifted. Jon had wide, trusting eyes but they were almost black. “You are Ned’s sister, through and through. I remember her. Lyanna Stark used ter come an’ watch the tournaments. Rumour added that she jousted in them too – taking up a mysterious House banner and knocking foolish men from their horses. She was the warrior in your sword arm. Rhaegar is the source of your foolish heart. I’ve seen the echo of him in the Queen.”

“They say his heart is what killed him.”

“I was _there_ when Rhaegar died. Believe me, Snow, your father died because Robert Baratheon put a war hammer through his skull. He summoned bravery instead of sense. A good memory,” Jorah added, “is the last thing the realm needs right now. Better we meet as strangers.”

Jon took a step beneath Ser Mormont. It was peaceful in this nook the knight had found, hidden by darkness. For a moment, he saw the appeal of Southern lands. “Robert killed my father. I killed my mother. My grandfather killed my half my Uncle’s family. They slew the my cousins in their sleep. There are no sides left to take. Only a history of violence. _North_ is the only thing I have.”

More silence followed. Jon felt drawn to the knight despite Davos’ warning to keep a safe distance. So many of the good men in the realm – the ones who remembered what it was to fight – were dead. Robb’s war with the Lannisters had finished off the few that remained. All Jon had left were farmers and children, most of which had the courage to hold a sword but not the skill to survive its blade. They’d _all_ die in the first moments.

“I understand your devotion to the Targaryen queen...” Jon breathed bravely. “After I took The Black, we went ranging beyond The Wall – through the Haunted Forest and up into the ice surrounding the Fist of the First Men. You know – where the mountains rise twice as high and vanish in the clouds.”

“I know it.”

“I was captured by a party of Wildlings an’ met a woman. Ygritte...” He had not said her name in so long that it stuck in his throat. “She had long red hair and green eyes. She tried to kill me the moment we met an’ never stopped trying. There was no honour in loving her. Broke every vow I made – to my House and to the Watch – to your father but there was no choice. She was a _fact_ of my existence.”

_Your heart did not set hundreds of thousands to flame in their homes_ , Jorah thought quietly to himself. “ If it were as simple as love, I would have kept the Queen in Qarth or  left her  storming across the Dothraki Sea on the back of a silver mare.  King’s Landing is not the first city that she has left in ruin. It is not even the second or third.  There is no forgiveness fo r the things that we have done. The best we can do is weigh their merit and hop e that, on balance, we were good before we died.”

“Are you worried?”

“About Daenerys?” Jorah scoffed. “She is safest on Drogon’s back. Have you told the others about what I showed you?”

“I don’t know _how_ to tell them,” Jon admitted. “There was a city on that map...”

“Aye. A city made of ice where dead things sleep – one that is not on any other maps.”

“There’s more that you haven’t shared...”

“I see things,” he admitted, “I was warned that they will come to pass. I did not believe that they were true until now.”

“Like dragons...” Jon whispered, watching the pair of them play as shadows. “Do you believe the old stories? Dragons made of ice, I mean – that hunt the Shivering Sea.”

“I cannot speak to ice dragons,” Jorah replied, eyes firmly on the sea of smoke, “but I’ve seen a white spider the size of a bear. It was so long ago. I was a child. No one believes the things children see. Now? When I close my eyes I see the mighty Trident frozen solid and an army camped in the shadow of The Twins. The wolves are howling and death is feasting.”

* ~*~*

“For certain, you _are_ a weird one then...” Davos peeked into the covered cart housing the Asshain priestess.  Drawn to the glow of her caravan, the captain paced nearby for hours before deciding to risk intrusion. He’d expected one of the Queen’s men to stop him but no one stood from their camp fires. Perhaps they thought the priestess had no need of a guard. “Qarth-”

“Quaithe...”

“That’s the one.” His upbeat tone endured even though the inside of the cloth-built space rippled with hostility. It stank of incense, magic and all the dead things that made their homes in the East.

“The smuggler,” Quaithe relaxed into the cushions, unafraid. “There are no answers here, Onion Knight.”

“I have not asked you any questions.”

“Like all bereaved, you seek reason from the gods...” She purred, eyes fragment of fire behind her golden mask. “Justification, is this correct, for the fate of the young princess? The Baratheon girl – gifted to ungrateful gods by a false priest.”

He felt foolish, sitting before her brimming with pointless hope.  The were no words to bring back the dead. “Well, I tried all the other gods. Might as well give yours a go.  I hear they are Eastern cunts,  older than the rest. ”

No one would ever see it but a smile crept over Quaithe’s smooth lips. “They are all the same gods,” she warned him. “The Red Witch  Melisandre sacrificed a child of royal blood to the flames for selfish reasons. Only she has the answers you seek  but  she  has slipped beyond your reach. You’ll not see her again.”  Quaithe grabbed Davos by the wrist and dragged him forward  with considerable strength . “Most of what we see  in this world  are phantoms…” Her gaze deliberately lowered to the stumps of his missing fingers. “ As real and absent as your  butchered digits.  You follow kings, Ser Davos, but you will never die for one. Onions bury themselves deep and wait out the Winter. When the Summer rains break  and seep into the earth  you shall be there to feel the light upon your face.”  Quaithe’s eyes closed as if she could feel that promised sun.

“I swore I’d kill ‘er and I will.” Davos was not a man of violence but he’d carved out an exception for the Red Woman. Slaying her was something he dreamed of. Nightly, he tied her to a pyre and held a torch to its edge. Her screams became Shireen’s and he woke.

“Her name belongs to somebody else...” Quaithe turned the man’s hand over and dragged his glove off. When she pressed her fingertips to the centre of his palm, the wound in his stomach tightened bitterly as if the knife were still turning in his flesh. “Poisoned steel lingers. You have come across more than one blade in your years upon the sea.”

“They ain’ nothing special,” Davos replied, snatching his hand away. Embarrassed, he covered the mutilated flesh. “Was all the fashion for a while, till the coin dried up along with all the food. I ‘eard a rumour ‘bout you – way back… A few folk up White Harbour way are convinced that you are one of them dragons that watched the palace at Summerhall burn. They even say you coaxed the flames… Made them burn like the sun, they said. Green and red and yellow.” Davos watched Quaithe retreat – a nerve touched. “S’all right,” he assured her. “You were correct, I _did_ come ‘ere with a question.”

“You best ask it,” she hissed.

“What was it drove you to Asshai? Seamen like me, we hear pretty messed up shit about the end of the world. Filthy waters full of dead things with a fire of their own. Islands that steam and burn when the waves break… Basilisks curled up on white shorelines and of course, the largest city ever built left in permanent darkness in a place without a sun. Only jewel merchants from the Jade Sea are crazy enough to make that journey – not Targaryen princesses running from their fathers.”

The gold plates covering Quaithe’s face rustled like leaves. Their inscriptions held back the light and  murmured with  unsaid words . “You would understand  my reasons ,” she  explained , “if you had laid eyes upon the broken shore s of which you speak. All things are drawn to their home,  Ser Davos . Asshai is the spark from whence we came. It is a charred corpse with a beating heart – though it stammers now, catching with rigor mortis . There is something spectacular  about  planting your feet at the edge of greatness and knowing with certainty that at our most brilliant  efforts have failed. Only then do you understand that life is not a cycle as the gentle Westerosi gods proclaim.  There’s no wheel, tipping over itself but a pit into which we all fall.  You ask why  I went there –  the answer is to see with my own eyes the past and future condensed into a single horizon. I  do not need trees to reveal  the world’s secrets – the evening sky suffices .”

“That Tarly boy was right to fear you,” Davos made to leave. Before he did, he lingered at the curtain, close enough for the cloth to brush against his face. “I ‘ave a theory about people who live too long in the world. They lose their way. A young princess taught me how ter read. She gave me a book an’ it was full of stories about ancient rulers clinging to power and empires dying as deserts lapped through their grand gates while seaside villages shrink to a single man wading in the low tide with a net. That last one I saw with me own eyes. You? You’re drowning in the darkest parts of this place.”

“I wander upon a broken shore… On Iron bones and raven’s eyes. Milkglass are my winter moons, rough her frosts the tide made raw. Into the bay the great ice floes die, under waves, songs from the runes come with a rush of bone, of smoke and salt, shell, rock, gold and tempered steel. Then nothing cold can move to breathe. A city fallen, stars brought to halt. Blood stilled in parchment’s seal. A broken shore, where black waters seethe. Then from under the rocks, the gods stir in their sleep. The Summers burn. The Winters freeze...” Quaithe’s violet eyes blinked slowly behind the slits of her mask. “The gods endowed you with a sharp set of eyes,” she added in a purr. “Look well at those you serve.”

###  **THE SKIES ABOVE THE REACH – WESTEROS**

Beneath, the ground shivered. Fields left to wrack and ruin became vast carpets of purple flowers. Stinking weeds. In the starlight, they danced, caressing each other as they strangled everything else. Scattered across the gently rolling hills lay outcrops of rock – castles abandoned in the centuries of war. Some had fires light within where farmers took shelter. Others stood, dark and morbid, skeletons of rock and mausoleums to nameless dead.

Sam Tarly leaned as far as he dared to the right, watching the fields beneath a wing. The dragon moved around him. Even in a smooth glide the muscles along its spine twitched. Its chest grew and shrank with each passing breath. Behind, a tail trailed the sky, swinging like a rudder. Riding a dragon was quieter than he’d imagined. Aside from the constant scratch of scales rubbing against each other, the world was silent. He ran his hands over those scales. The ones interlocked beside the saddle were huge, nearly the size of shield with a similar convex shape. Sam could easily see why the old stories thought they came from beneath the ocean. They were inherently aquatic, despite their love of flame, making homes of sea caves and hunting gulls and fish.

The dragon was not as intriguing as the silver woman laid over its back. Daenerys’ eyes were closed, as if in sleep. Her bloodied clothes had dried but there was evidence of the battle matted in her long, white hair. Sam knew exactly why she’d kept the impractical braid. _Kharls_ , Marwyn told him the previous evening, _never cut their hair. It is taken from them in defeat. Her silver hair cascades past her waist,_ Sam listened despite Marwyn’s lascivious gaze, _a testament to her conquest._ _When you look at her remember, that girl united the horse tribes. A vicious people who value strength and violence. You can tell a leader from their followers and they chose her, along with a ruthless – cockless army, a drunk Lannister, an exiled knight and a House famous for bending the knee after their liege lords burned._

“H-how old are you?” Sam asked nervously. He wasn’t good with drawn out silences. When people were quiet the world took over, especially in the North. At _The Wall_ , standing on the rotten edge, there were days so quiet that he heard the ice scream. “Only I was thinking,” he continued, despite no evidence of a reply from the Targaryen, “you’d be going on twenty this year. I’m twenty-one – in a bit. Not that different really, a year. The distance gets smaller, doesn’t it – as we get on? Then one day there’s no difference at all. We become adults. Odd really, when you think about it. _I think about it_. The longer I do the more I worry that there are _no_ adults – only children that got old.”

Daenerys was asleep against her dragon, lulled into peace by the steady thud of his heart. Her limbs were twisted in lengths of leather, tethered to the saddle behind where Sam perched. She had not slept properly for so long that her dreams sank their claws in.

“Aye, _shut up, Sam_...” He said to himself. Babbling nonsense was one of his worst habits. His father _hated it_ beyond words. “Look...” Sam whispered. His voice was not loud enough to carry past the roar of air but he felt he had to speak, even if only the gods heard. “Spare my shit of a brother… He’ll come ‘round to your view of the world, I know he will. One look at them walking dead and his knee is as good as bent. Give him what Jon gave me – a chance.”

###  **SEA DRAGON POINT – SUNSET SEA**

“There and there again. Another one over near the cliffs. Wait for the swell to drop a moment. See. _There_. Smashing up against the edge there. Bergs.”

The pieces of ice had been drifting around them for hours. Many were small outcrops of ice that wandered the surface in white convoys. They spread over the water like ribbons of silk. Others were _huge_. The largest was big enough to stand level with the castle on _Old Wyke_. Theon didn’t know what to do as he watched the pale monsters drift through the water.

Asha joined him on the deck draped in fur. Her breath came as plumes of mist while in the haze of grey clouds meandering over the water they found swirls of snow. There was more of it, freshly laid, over _Sea Dragon Point_. The _Wolfswood_ that crept along the Northern edge of the cliffs was hidden in thick falls. _Winterfell_ sat on the other side. They could pick it by the columns of smoke rising into the sky.

Their ship led the fleet which was inflated by Pol Qo’s stolen Mantarian ships. The Eastern Horseman kept to himself. Short with a cone-shaped head and dressed in yellow robes he was easy to pick on the prow of a nearby ship.

The water turned to chop as they neared the point. One of the bergs drifted through the centre of the fleet. Sails twisted. The winds rushed in awkward mayhem. The cliffs cast a shadow over the water, dropping the temperature as they sailed beneath.

It ended as soon as they’d cleared _Sea Dragon Point_. In front, two startling vistas appeared. The first was _Bear Island_ rising out of _The Bay of Ice_ , smouldering and green despite the clutch of winter strangling the water at its shore. The second was the bank of white on the Northern horizon where the _Lands of Always Winter_ butted up against the bay. The faintest press of mountains against the sky came in and out of focus, almost a shadow except it was made of light.

“Have you ever seen the waters like this, little brother?” Asha asked Theon, leaning into the wind.

Theon shook his head. There were a too many bergs to count. They were were breaking off fresh glaciers on the opposing shore. Fishing boats tried to weave between them, catching their nets on the sharp edges. “Those damn things will sink us.”

Asha turned, raised her hand and gave the command to the fleet to go slow. Sails deflated, laying down against the _Ironwood_ masts. She reached forward to steady herself as the boat pulled up in the water and caught its own bow wave. Ahead, they saw hundreds of white gulls circling _Bear Island’s_ cliffs, screeching desperately. They thickened near an old _Weirwood_ whose ruby leaves thrived in the sudden cold.

Pol Qo’s eye was drawn to an unholy rise of blue on the far North-Eastern shore. The land was higher, more than twice that of the thin white line that ran all the way along the horizon. Atop it stood the edge of _The Wall_. Enormous, the man-made creation towered above a scattering of mountains to the East, eclipsing them. A dark stain on its edge Pol Qo presumed to be their destination. _Westwatch_. First, they had to charter peace with the tiny island sitting in the heart of the bay.

He directed his ships to circle left, wrapping themselves around the island at a distance. There were a great many of them and when added to the Greyjoy’s number there were almost enough for a perfect ring. Only one ship proceeded towards the crumbling dock at the harbour entrance.

A bell on the island rang over and over. The sound echoed in the ice bergs. Instead of organised soldiers, locals emerged straight from the forest, one at a time, carrying axes.

_First Men_ . Theon hadn’t realised how different they were from the rest of the realm until he saw them without their finery and ceremony.  In that moment, it was as though he’d never left his childhood at  _Winterfell_ . The Starks and the Mormonts – they were kin. Terrifying kin.

“Are you all right?” Asha asked, placing her hand on his back.

T heon nodded. “ These people do not understand surrender,” he whispered. “I’d not fight them for all the gold in the realm.”

“We are not here to fight,” she reminded him.

“I wish there were a way to tell them that before we step onto their island.”

* ~*~*

The wait was the worst part. With their ship creeping through the dangerous waters, the welcoming party on the shore thickened.  Several hundred packed the moss-soaked rock s . Some climbed recently beached bergs, sitting on the cleaves of ice with no fear.  Most of the fishing boats had been pulled up the beach to the tree line. Theon noticed the occasional rotting corpse wedge d in dangerous rocks, easy to pick with hovering seagulls tearing at the decayed flesh.

“There was a battle here recently.”

“With the Boltons?”

“I doubt that...” Theon replied. “Ramsay Bolton had no interest in poverty and believe me, these people are _poor_. They came trading at Winterfell when I was young, offering a few pelts and seal oil in exchange for grain. It was a terrible deal for Ned but he made it anyway. Every year. He’d never see them starve or let them lose their honour begging. They’d be glad of Ned’s generosity now. I heard it were the Mormonts that brought the North together, rallying for my brother.”

“Snow is _not_ your brother,” Asha reminded him sharply. “Your brothers are dead.”

Theon shook his head defiantly. “Hate it if you like but those boys were my brothers.”

* ~*~*

The jetty was short and unusual, tacked to the beach to the left of the harbour entrance. The  fringe of  _Bear Island_ ended in deep water which, on a fair day, turned an eerie blue. Today the skies were grey along with everything  that lulled around underneath .

Sailors tossed the ship’s ropes into waiting hands  who tethered the m firmly to the ancient wood. The true harbour  set deep in the islands embrace  was built solely for shallow-hulled fishing boats. A ship this size would beach  through the passage and wreck on the towering cliffs  that hemmed its neck in .

“Smart...” Asha whispered, eyeing the set up. “It’s difficult to board an island if you can’t dock.”

“They did away with their old jetties long ago. Our fault, I imagine. Too many Ironborn raiding parties. They decided to cut themselves off from the world and struggle on.”

Asha pushed her fur hood  off onto her shoulders. “It’s warm here...”

“That’s the rocks,” Theon replied, as the side of the boat scraped the jetty, settling itself. “There’s heat in ‘em. Ned used to say it were the old gods stirring.”

“Did you believe him?”

“I don’t know what ter believe,” Theon admitted. “For a long time I thought the Starks were monsters for keeping me hostage as a child. Then I met Ramsay… Now, if what they say is true about what’s coming over that wall of ice – we might need to redefine our childhood monsters.”

“Mine was always the sea...” She whispered. “Whipped into a storm, there is nothing like a war between the sea and sky. The old priest that drowned us as children – he went mad toward the end, throwing himself against the rocks as the tide came in. He said that he’d seen them – the oceans beneath the sea. Water made of fire.”

* ~*~*

A Mormont welcome involved cold stares from blue eyes. Hard people… They shifted at the end of the jetty ready to cut the visitors into pieces for their fire. Theon turned his nose at the smell of death lapping at the dock. Beneath the clear water, ice cold, he could see bone and flesh picked at by silver fish with sharp teeth and yellow fins.

T heon was conscious of the copper squid clasp holding his fur in place and the matching figurehead leaning from the bow of his ship.  He looked for the young Mormont Lady but Lyanna was not there.  Instead a tall maester  wrapped in heavy chains stepped forward. He had red hair, edged in grey and green eyes.

“You are not welcome in these waters, Theon...” The maester introduced himself with a Riverfolk accent. He nodded to Asha, “That goes doubly so for you. We’ve nothing to reave save a few salted fish. These years are hard years.” The maester stopped short of mentioning the terrifying fleet waiting in the bay still brandishing Mantarian sails. The demonic creatures painted on their canvases shivered in the wind.

“We ‘ave not come to your waters to thieve and butcher,” Theon assured the maester, for all the good it did.

“Your word is worth less that dirt, Greyjoy. A skilled builder can make bricks from mud. You are a traitor thrice over. What use are you?”

“None at all,” Theon replied, without the slightest trace of mockery. “Look behind me, maester. I have not come to offer you my word. The bulk of the ships floating in your waters belong to Queen Daenerys Targaryen.”

A glint of fear was hidden well. “Even more reason for them to burn. The Southern king is a Lannister cub. Our king sits in Winterfell and his name is St-”

“ _Stark_...” Theon finished for the maester, exhaling the  predictable word firmly. “King Tommen is dead, or soon as shit will be.”

“And _what_ , exactly? You’ve taken up a dragon banner and sail in league with the Mad King’s daughter? Enough blood has bled for her red banners.”

“Daenerys is not looking for bent knees.” Theon half-turned and extended his arm toward the armada. “These people are not _from_ Westeros. Daenerys met them on the farthest Eastern edge of the world. They are  survivors from the great city of Yin,” a few shared looks of acknowledgement, “now a complete ruin, fallen into the Jade Sea. They sail under the leader of the horse tribes of the Jogos Nhai – their natural enemy now turned kin. Their world _collapsed_...” Theon stepped toward the maester. “They are here because Westeros is the last stand against the dead and this tiny island is where the realm of the living stands and says _no_ , we will not bow to death.”

A sha  also closed in on the  maester. He was wavering, she could tell. It was as though everyone could suddenly feel the cold wind picking up from the water and the  _Lands of Always Winter_ weighing heavy in their fear. How many hours did the Bears spend watching the sheets of ice grow? Did they notice their grey harbour starting to lock up…  Were there things that moved about in the night that made them fearful of the dark?  _Mormonts had always known_ .

“Turn us away – we will go,” Asha added, her voice quiet. “Winterfell and The Wall will have us but Pol Qo – the leader of their fleet, he was with the queen when she lay on the dirt and dreamed our futures. She saw this bay turned into a white lake and bone walkers crossing in their thousands.”

* ~*~*

_Bear Island_ was not large enough for the queen’s army to make landfall. Instead the ships banded together, throwing ropes and boards across their decks turning themselves into a floating  mass of wood and sail. They became a barge that used the main island as protection from passing ice bergs, careful to remain in the smooth water that dragged behind. They would need a guide to sail ahead of the fleet and take them to the treacherous docks of _Westwatch_. Only the Mormonts knew the secrets of those waters.

Pol Qo came ashore with a few of the Yinnish guards. They were terribly mismatched with the guards tall and slender while Pol Qo had a cone shaped head, bright clothes and tattooed arms. Neither were as immense as the native population of  _Bear Island_ . They were thick with muscle – the men and women alike. Even the children were the size of adults.

It was Theon and his sister who felt the full breadth of hostility from the islanders. Centuries of violence from their kin brimmed in their memory. Asha in particular had sailed  these waters herself once or twice – sunk a fishing trawler and taken the catch for her men. There was no honour in it. Ironborn didn’t care for honour.

“I’ll be amazed if we are not killed in our sleep, little brother,” Asha whispered, as they were led into the great hall. It was cavern of pine and smoke, built as a Keep rather than a gilded banquet hall. It was warm, at least, and all of them were drawn toward the fires.

“The maester will not touch us,” Theon replied, rubbing his hands together in the golden light. Poor as they were, there was something comforting about the solid immensity of the hall. It had the look of a thousand years. “He is sending a raven to the Lady of Bear Island. She will decide what to do with us. We are fortunate that they honour the old ways. We broke bread in their hall.”

The Yinnish guards eyed the primitive surrounds, reaching out to lay their hands on the thick pine logs that formed the walls before bending to do the same to the black glass floor. The light from the fires reflected across the surface like a dark pool. The Mormonts had not made that floor themselves. Something terrible had happened in this place  or worse…

A  bear roared, deep in the mountain forest. Pol Qo turned to the sound then hissed words to the Yinnish guards.  Only the maester understood their bastardised High Valyrian.

*~*~*

The sun set fast. Pol Qo watched the watery orb track through the thin layer of clouds until half its body lay in the  _Sunset Sea_ . He’d never seen waters turn so soft, folding together like silver silk.  They took on moments of colour – a wave catching the sun here and there until something changed and all the floating chunks of ice laid across the surface transformed into pink sentries.  _Beautiful_ .  A terrifying match to the icy world that lay to the North.

T heon climbed  _Bear Island’s_ Keep and found Pol Qo sitting on the cusp of its stone edge. Clearly, he was a man used to perching on the overhangs of mountains and showed no fear of the drop beneath. Instead his eyes were fixed on the water as they had been on the plains.

“ _Look...”_ Pol Qo raised his hand, muttering in High Valyrian.

Theon did not understand the words but he turned his eye to the patch of water basking in sunset. For a while he stared, searching between the lazy bergs for a ship.  Then he realised it wasn’t a vessel he was supposed to be looking for. Pol Qo grabbed him by the head and forcibly turned it as you might a child. Then he saw – shifting in the rose light – an  _ice spider_ .

He backed away from the wall at once, eyes wide and hand over his mouth. Theon tripped over his own feet, landing on Keep’s uneven ground.

Pol Qo laughed and uttered in his native tongue, speaking of foals and their unsteady nerves. He was not afraid of the creature clinging to the ice. No. Pol Qo wanted to get a closer look.

Theon closed his eyes and could have sworn that he heard the Keep whisper beneath his hands. The rock was wet even though there’d been no snow or rain in the past day. It was  _always_ wet, catching ocean mist. The whole bloody island was just one thick carpet of moss breaking into sporadic plumes of spore.

*~*~*

Asha pushed aside a thick bank of fern growing from the collapsed trunk of a pine. It has crashed through the valley long ago, originally bridging the steep sides of the narrow gorge before decay broke it apart and sent it to a final slumber in the shallow mountain stream. She climbed through its body.

She followed the stream to its source which turned out to be a deep, clear pool high up the gorge where  unusually tall pines had grown so close together that only their tops sported limbs. The rest became an impenetrable wall with their thick roots crossed like mangroves over the boulders at the edge of the water.  Asha climbed over these too, leaving her clothes draped over their twisted forms.

Dipping her head back, Asha searched the flat-faced cliffs. They were so sheer that nothing grew on their surface except ice, higher up. There were a few hours left in the afternoon and she was desperate to rid herself of the stink of the sea. Months she’s spent on the run. Examining herself she realised  that her ribs stuck through her skin and if she didn’t see a fight soon, her muscles would start to wither. That would prove fatal. They’d have to train, all of them, either on sea or shore.

For the first time in decades her skin was blemish free. Victarion’s hand marks around her neck were gone and the slashes from his sword had dissolved into neat silver lines that crossed her back and shoulder. As her feet stepped into the steaming water – heated from burning rocks deep in the centre of the lake, she realised there was one mark of Victarion’s violence that could not be hidden. It would grow, larger by the day.

She sank into the water and swam into the centre where the steam roared off the surface. The heat was intoxicating, enveloping her in caressing currents.  _Bear Island_ was spoken of as a knife point in the waves – a piece of broken land surrounded by ice and salt but its depths protected a haven of warmth and green. It was an outpost of survival. Was it any wonder the Mormonts fought fiercely – they  _loved_ their grey mountains and valleys made of pine  where bears roamed and caverns vanished, delving beneath the sea.

Then she opened her eyes and saw with horror what had been affixed to the trees on the far side of the pool. A wall of faces. Dead. Eyeless and withered. Preserved by the vapour coming from the pool.  _Hundreds_ of Wildling heads severed at the neck with tendons left hanging like roots.  Trophies of a recent slaughter.

* ~*~*

Pol Qo’s spear was made from obsidian. Its grip was wrapped in layers of horse hair knotted wi th teeth.  The plan was to wait until morning but when word spread of  a monstrous  spider drifting in the bay there was no stopping the Bears. They dragged their fishing boats off the shore and piled in carrying axes and two-foot curved fishing blades.

The horselord sat at the front of one of these low vessels, pointing toward the berg. When the light died the torches were lit along with lanterns hung off the back on flexible wooden poles that bowed with the swell.

“This is a _mistake_...” Asha breathed against Theon’s neck. They were sat together in the narrow boat behind Pol Qo. Two more Mormonts rowed behind, powering them across the water. “There’s no moon tonight. We can’t see shit in this water.  We fall in here we die.”

“And if we wait,” he replied, “the creature could vanish into the tide. No one would believe our story. Pol Qo is right to hunt it where it sleeps.”

Their words were replaced by the lap of water against the hull. Larger waves splashed over the edge. When the spray dried it left white stains of salt. Five more boats spread out around them, all transforming into sad, yellow halos of light on the black water. There should have been stars but the clouds became a blanket during the night. Only _Bear Island_ and the raft of ships let out a glow and, further East, the fires of _Winterfell_ produced hue on the underside of the clouds. Theon wondered what they were burning – men or pine.

Hours later, the boats approached around the berg. It was larger than they realised, vaulting out of the water in three vertical rises and one low, beach-like stretch where the water was less than a foot off the ice, sitting beneath the edge of the fishing boats. The crew were silent, not wanting to wake the ice spider which had folded itself up into a ball, all its horrific legs tucked in and its eyes closed – waiting out the night. There is sat, perfectly still – white like the snow. Invisible, Theon imagined, in its natural home in the unnamed mountains of the North.

Theon’s hands shook as he reached over the edge of the boat and pushed a metal pick into the ice.  T he Mormont behind him pushed another in, tethering them.  The boat felt the pull of the current immediately . They were drifting together.  Dancing in the waves.

Pol Qo moved first, stepping silently onto the ice – spear raised. He used the wooden end to steady himself while all but one man joined the raiding party. The other boats held back, leaning to watch the terrifying sight. Theon and Asha took the right side. She held a lantern and carried an urn filled with oil. Careful, she kept the light away from the sleeping creature not knowing that it was blind.

T he ice spider had limbs of bone yet it was not dead. Fine, transparent hairs clawed their way across its segmented legs. Its fangs were covered in thick flaps of white skin.  The black tips of its legs were buried in the ice, feeling the cautious steps of its prey inch closer.  It has spun a few fine threads of web between the rough sides of the berg. Several tiny crystals  formed along their line, dripping from the silver thread.

T he Mormont fishermen, big men with bear pelts, hesitated.

It was a  horror made flesh. A few murmured words to the sea. Others cursed the winds.  Eight eyes opened. They were  _not_ blue like old songs and this creature was not possessed by the dead. It was  _alive_ with a will of its own. A  _thing_ woken from sleep, deep in the North and drawn towards a feast of flesh. It could probably taste the dead in the trails of ash that has been steadily falling over the land.

Asha nodded to the front right leg. Curled up, they’d not noticed at first that it was missing its lower two segments. The creature was injured and unable to walk over the waves. It was trapped on the berg – possibly marooned by a glacier crumbling into the bay.

Pol Qo decided he would lead – which no one challenged. Already small, he ducked even lower, angling his spear upwards. The spider sensed the movement and shifted, unfurling several of its limbs, more than doubling its size. Awe  brought everyone pause. Like the first glimpse of a dragon, the ice spider felt like a dream – or nightmare that entered the waking hours. It was real enough that its shift in weight rocked the berg.  Hands went out, each person steadying themselves. In warning, the ice spider retracted part of the skin covering its fangs revealing black fangs as thick as Theon’s arm. Venom dripped onto the ice beneath and hissed in a  cloud of yellow smoke.

A Mormont swore. Pol Qo scampered sideways with astonishing speed and sprung forwards, embedding his spear in the fold between the two sections of the creatures abdomen.  Grey liquid expelled and parts of the exoskeleton  crunched inwards like ruined glass .

Silence. Spiders had no voice with which to scream.  All three remaining legs on the right side lifted from the ground, curling up and smashing in repeated strikes on the ice beside Pol Qo. He held onto the end of his spear and found himself lifted from the ground, flailing in the air as the  creature tried to kick him free. The Mormonts ducked the other way and hacked at the closest limb with their axes, severing the tip. It lurched forwards, fangs arching out. Wind whistled across their smooth surface as they plunged toward the men. One escaped – the other was stuck through the shoulder – crushing the bone and flesh into a paste. Life lingered as the man dropped his axe and gurgled blood. His body convulsed – nerves quivering uncontrollably.  Then the venom began its horrific course, melting what was left until the arm separated and a bloody pool smouldered.

“Theon – look out!”

Theon pressed himself against the ice wall. A spider leg swiped harmlessly by  and slammed into ice above his head, sending a shower of white over him.  Pol Qo’s spear came free. He hit the ground gripping it, coated in the awful liquid that flowed from the spider’s body. Enraged, the creature spread itself, clawing away from the ground – retreating to the higher flanks of the ice wall where it could lean down, fangs twitching. Lit from Asha’s flame beneath, its shadow formed, monstrous above.

“Fookin’ thing’s as big as a bear!” The remaining Mormont plucked his fallen friend’s axe from the ground and wielded them both.

“I’ll burn it-” Asha moved forward, but her brother caught her jacket and dragged her away. “No – we do that and who will believe us? They need to see – those Southern born.”

“Who fucking cares?” Asha replied.

“You will,” said Theon, “when you want their help.”

Pol Qo dropped his spear and extracted a pair of daggers. He held one in each hand then launched himself at the ice, using them as climbing spikes to haul himself up the wall of ice toward the spider.

“Mad bastard...” Theon breathed, watching the foreigner. “Keep it distracted! We better give ‘im a hand.”

So they did, launching failed attacks at the spider one at time, forcing it to reach out and swipe at them with fang and leg. They could see its fury in the way it held  itself . Each movement of their blades was echoed in the spider. Back. Forward. Back. They played with it until beads of venom swelled at the points of both fangs. It  _wanted_ to murder them. It felt the ghost of their blades in its soggy flesh.

Pol Qo climbed higher than the spider, turned then dropped down from a great height, landing on the creature’s back with both blades stabbing into its shell. The spider reared ferociously – stretched toward the heavens.

“Now!” Screamed Theon, and all of them surged forward.

The horselord worked his way along the spider’s back, dragging himself by the blades until he reached its head. Its bristles tore through his clothing and flesh. Then, staring into one of its eyes with a morbid fascination, he plunged the knife into its skull.

*~*~*

No one knew what to say. The ice spider was dragged into a log cabin where it could be kept safe from scavengers. It was smaller, curled up on its back in death but no less horrific. The maester, in particular, leaned in and ran his hand down one of the solidified hairs that covered its legs. The flesh on his hand split apart. He jolted, staring dumbly at his bleeding hand.

Pol Qo’s sorcerer tossed herbs into the fire, filling the room with choking smoke but no one had the nerve to stop him. He was, as the guards said, making sure the creature’s soul stayed dead.

“We cannot keep it,” the maester insisted. “You know our ways. The dead are burned.”

“I am not asking you to keep it forever,” Theon insisted, “only long enough for us to work out a way to convince the others that it is real.”

“Then _you_ will spare the men to watch it. Night and day. If it moves it will be reduced to ash.”

“Theon...” Asha pulled him away. “They’ve agreed to take us to Westwatch.”

“I guess that means that they believe us.”

“Perhaps. Either way, we need to go. We came to secure the castle and now we can.”

It was Theon’s turn to take his sister by the arm and pull her closer. He lowered his voice to nothing more than a breath. “The things we did to get here – the blood we spilled to fill that fleet to the brim, we never speak of it again. We are thieves, pirates and murderers – all of us… Pol Qo especially so. That ends. We weren’t born with honour so we will have to find it in the shadow of The Wall.”

Asha did not take his words quite as seriously as he would have liked. Her lip curled in humour. She wanted to survive the Winter but that did not mean changing her soul. “As you wish, brother but I’ll not be the one to tell _him_.”

Theon eyed the horselord. “I’ll do it.”

“You don’t speak High Valyrian.”

“That maester does. He can help.”

*~*~*

The _Bear Island_ maester had taken refuge in the lower levels of the Keep. Once they’d been dungeons. There were still fragments of chain hanging from the wall and grooves in the floor where doors and bars were mounted. Now it was a store house – hollowed out and re-packed with grain from the mainland. Dried fish were stacked on shelves and vats of oil were kept separate. A simple desk was pushed against one of the walls where a few scrolls were kept.

“Not much of a maester’s quarters,” said Theon, entering cautiously.

The maester set his quill down. “It is more than can be said of the Iron Islands. I heard they slew their maester and fed his entrails to the sharks.”

“Good for burleying the waters, or so my sister says. I wouldn’t know. I was raised inland.”

“Yes, Theon. Everyone in the North knows your story. It is not the kind of fame one wants to court. Why are you here?”

He was about to reply when Theon spotted a pile of raven scrolls bearing Benjen Stark’s name. “What’s this then?” Theon went for one but the maester was out of his seat, putting himself between the Ironborn and the scrolls.

“That’s not your business now.”

“Benjen’s dead… Ned told us so himself. Missing in the North. Everyone knows it. What is he doing sending you ravens?”

“They’re not my ravens...” The maester held his nerve.

###  **WESTWATCH BY THE BRIDGE – THE NORTH**

The castle was abandoned. Perched on the brink with its feet choked in the foundations of _The Wall,_ the wind howled through its empty rooms. It was a monstrosity of Northern architecture but this was nothing compared to the vast cracks running in vertical tracks at the edge of _The Wall_. The constant bombardment of storms funnelled along the gorge tore pieces off it every year. The crawl of Winter made it worse. There were days when it was _only_ the stone holding the divide and nights where its imminent collapsed threatened to tear a hole in the entire enterprise.

“There was a bridge there...” Asha stepped toward the edge of the gorge. A pair of stone posts remained with the limp ruins of chain hanging from them. She dared not step any closer. The exposed cliff was coated in layers of ice polished smooth. She didn’t need to. There was a mirror of it on the other side where a segment of the _Bridge of Skulls_ survived, hanging flat against the cliff. Its edges were burned. The waters beneath ran so fast that rest of the bridge would be sunken in the bay.

“A man by the name of Dorin blew it to pieces with Wildfire,” Theon explained. “The maester said it happened a few months back. No one will say fer definite but the walkers were _here,_ on the other side of the gorge. They tried to cross the bridge so the old man destroyed it.”

“Is that why the Wildlings attacked Bear Island? Were they running from the dead?”

Theon shifted cautiously. “They don’t talk about that and we shouldn’t either.”

“I _saw_ the spoils myself, Theon. They kept their _heads_ for show.”

“And now everyone has to _forget_ , Asha. For a little while at least we keep our mouths shut and our eyes North. What difference does it make to us who kills who?”

“ _All_ I am saying is that these people are dangerous. Your Stark captors might have licked their cocks for honour but they’ll tear our skin off if they think it’s to their advantage.”

“Are we any better?” He asked her, seriously. “If you want a list of the depraved you should start with Victarion.”

Asha tore herself away from Theon. “You know _nothing_ of Victarion,” she cautioned. “I pray you never will.”

###  **WINTERFELL – THE NORTH**

Lyanna Mormont dripped a small puddle of yellow wax onto the rolled parchment – _yellow_ because the red wax had been exhausted last month and now they were forced to ration the candles and use seal oil to fuel the lanterns in the castle. It burned with a familiar scent – a stale stink that used to permeate the vaulted halls of her home. Ironically it burned with twice the ferocity leaving the innards of _Winterfell_ practically ablaze.

“M’lady…”

“There is no point lingering at my door, Payne,” Lyanna remained seated at the desk. She was not yet tall enough to reach the floor and kept her feet balanced on an old crate.

Podrick knew better than to judge a person by their statue. His years in service to Tyrion taught him that the most dangerous people were often the smallest, moving unnoticed through the world. “Whose fate do you toy with this afternoon?” He half-joked.

“The realm, I imagine. Though on this occasion the risk is mostly personal.” She tied the thread, preparing the message for a raven which she would select herself. Lyanna trusted _no one_. “You will find out soon, I guess...” She sighed, convincing herself to speak. Podrick sidled in and closed the door. At least the castle walls had calmed since their calamity. They no longer moved beneath the softest touch. “There is no hiding this secret, even if I wished to. Bear Island is host to a fleet of Targaryen ships, led by Ironborn and stocked with raiders from the East. _I know_ ,” Lyanna watched her company’s eyes widen in disbelief, “imagine the songs the maesters will concoct when news reaches their ears. Without laying so much as a banner upon our shore, the Mad King’s daughter has outflanked the Northern empire and drowned our number.”

“Ironborn...” Podrick missed the material point. “I heard they had taken up in Casterly Rock. How did they align with the Targaryen?”

_He spends too much time around Brienne – whose interests lay South,_ thought Lyanna  unkindly to herself.  “ Victarion remains in open occupation of the Lannister lands. These Ironborn are his niece and nephew – whom he tried to murder  when he took the salt throne. No doubt  Theon Greyjoy and his sister wave dragon banners in the hope that she’ll gift them the Iron Islands when all is said and done. Perhaps she will… Perhaps everyone will be dead. It does not matter. Bear Island fought off a Wildling raid  but it cannot push back against  a force of this size . Varys,” she held up a scrap of paper from the spider, “panics. He believes all Northern folk  are quick to stir  at their swords . In truth, we look the other way more often than he’d like if it holds the peace. Death is a waste of life.”

“And that letter is...”

“To the maester at Bear Island instructing him to safely escort these Greyjoys and their foreign friends to Westwatch castle. At least this way it will be manned and if Victarion decides to sniff around he might cower at the fleet left moored in the bay. Do you know why we keep so many bears on Bear Island?”

Podrick felt the air prick with ice. “They are good for hunting?”

“We like to keep _fear_ close. Makes us alert – like a touch of frost.”


	92. Reaching for War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for LoveableKillerWhale - thank you for your reviews and welcome to the fandom. :)

 

###  **WINTERFELL – THE NORTH**

Lady Lyanna Mormont waded out into the snow drifts that embraced the old grey walls of _Winterfell_ castle. Small, her furs trailed and her sword cut a path in the powder. There were others about in the white wilderness – hunting deer and felling trees. Stragglers from collapsing villages deviated from the _King’s Road_ and forged a pilgrimage toward the partially rebuilt fortress in the hopes of somewhere warm to curl up and die. There were less of those every day. Most, bewilderingly, pressed on towards _The Wall_ where they’d heard the Dragon Queen fed and housed any that could hold a sword. _Let them go_ , she thought, _we cannot feed them here._

Crows scattered all of a sudden, racing into the air as a tree hit the ice. Lyanna headed left, crossing the uneven approach to the _Godswood_. Under the bowers of its snow-laden trees, Lyanna finally felt a sense of peace. _Winterfell_ brimmed with tortured souls. There wasn’t a hallway or scrap of ground to escape their suffering. Here, at least, the only sound was that of the creaking branches and occasional _swoosh_ of snow collapsing onto the ground. _Building and building_ she could not help but think, _until it swallows us whole._

Deeper, she emerged onto the rock path that wound between the roots of the larger trees whose gnarled and twisted forms crossed each other in their hurry for the ground. _Ironwood_. Willow. Birch. Finally, _Weirwood_. The largest and oldest its brutal skeleton thrived in the cold. In fact, Lyanna could have sword that since the weather turned for the worse the white tree had added several feet to its height and a fresh flourish of crimson leaves. The face on its trunk gaped in ritual horror, aghast at the view with sap gathering in its folds. Screaming.

The pool at the centre of the wood continued to steam. A vibrant border of green moss saturated the rocks partially submerged around the edge. Headstones for the oldest Starks poked out from the surrounds. No one paid them much attention in the Summer but now that snow smothered the forest, they were conspicuous as was the gaping entrance to the catacombs which lay as an open throat to the world of dead things.

Though her gaze lingered, Lyanna was not here for the filthy whispers of bones.

Instead she knelt in front of the _Weirwood_ and laid her sword across the leaf-stained snow. The hideous face shed sap tears. Thick and flowing like satin on royal gowns, it collected in the creases of the bark. She dragged her finger through the honey-like substance and did as her mother had shown her – wiping it down the length of her blade.

Tears built in her eyes and spilled, dripping over the ground as she whispered sacred prayers.

Not yet a woman, she had led men to their deaths. Commanded them to suffer the wretched horror of war and they had followed. It was their loyalty that hurt. Their absolute obedience to her will as if she, too, were a god sitting on an ivory throne among the clouds. Power fed power, or so she’d heard. In Lyanna it made her ill but that was nothing to the realisation that she’d feared since her mother died and made her Lady of Bear Island – alone on the throne were her kin dead or vanished.

_She was good at killing._ Brutal decisions became her  and it was only a matter of time before her blade did the slaughtering.

Lyanna did not come to the  _Weirwood_ to ask anything of the gods. She came to  utter the names of the dead.  _Remember what you lost,_ her mother said.  _Tally the cost_ . So that is what she did. Lyanna took stock of her own butchery and tried not to imagine the list of names she’d need if the situation at  _Bear Island_ devolved into violence.

W hen her prayers were done she was left with  only  one name. Her cousin.  The disgraced lord whose  memory was spat at in the great hall.

Jorah Mormont.

Blood was blood and in times like these Lyanna knew that it would be foolish to remember the past when the future waited with a noose around its neck.

“You really must stop following me, Gendry...” Lyanna said, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Most importantly because you are not very good at it. Southerns don’t understand snow. You are like children when you walk through it. Brash and vulnerable. Food for the wolves.”

“And you _are_ a child,” Gendry replied  defiantly, stepping from his hiding place.

“Fact is not a slight if it serves no disadvantage.” Lyanna sheathed her sap-stained sword and turned to the young man. He was a good deal taller than her and thickening out across the shoulders with every day he trained. His hair was thick and black while his face continued to betray his secret by looking more and more like King Robert’s ghost – or so she was told.

“I meant no harm in disturbing your prayers,” he admitted, sincerely. “Only, I never saw you cry before.”

“Nor should you have seen it this time.” Lyanna failed to offer an apology for her humanity. “It is not weakness to cry, only to let your soldiers see it. Grown men, I assure you, have plenty of tears lodged in their beards.”

“Are you made entirely of proverbs?” Gendry’s eyes brightened in a smile.

Lyanna rolled hers in reply.  “My life is built on what I have been able to learn.  My mother was my tutor and I am the poorer for her loss.  The very young learn best in stories. ”

“Man down at the smithy was mine – in more than sword making. I don’t remember my mother. No one does.”

“And _everyone_ remembers your father.”

“You know who I am.”

“Aye. You are a piece on the board of kings.”

Gendry drew closer to the warm waters of the pool and sat himself on an oversized rock. It was slippery underfoot but worth it for the steam swirling off the surface. Anything to heat his bones. “I don’t much like the games kings play,” he admitted. “The last time I saw them played, a red witch tried to sacrifice me to bring on a storm. This place smells like Dragonstone. They burned bodies on the beach. At least they are already dead up here.”

Lyanna crept in, wary but curious of the young man. She had not met many outsiders before coming to  _Winterfell_ . A boy from the South was some what of a novelty. “Magic is stronger in the North. It lives in the trees – in the air – in the blood of the old houses.” Lyanna nodded at the gravestones. “There are men buried here that walked the world for hundreds of years and dreamed of aeons we will never see come to pass.  Warlocks and skin changers – Greenseers...”

“Is that what your maester tells you?”

“No. That is what the songs say.”

Gendry nodded at the bower of pale limbs twisted overhead. “I don’t understand what Northern folk keep saying about these white trees. There was one at  _King’s Landing_ but it was small, without one of them faces carved into the trunk.”

“I can only tell you what my mother used to say when I was small.” She climbed onto the rock beside him, rearranged his furs and looked over the lake to the mouth of the crypts. There was a near constant tumble of red leaves onto the surface. “Long ago, there were forests everywhere and trees like this. From the furthest lands of Winter to the Arm of Dorne. Perhaps all the way to the Free Cities. Their roots go deep into the earth, knitting together until some find themselves _so deep_ that they touch the corpses of our sleeping gods. The Old Gods don’t die – they _dream_ of everything that was and is. The trees hear d these whispers and shared them with the Children.”

“I have heard stories of the Children – how they broke the Arm of Dorne.”

“Well, the stories go that some of the First Men took these Children to bed and their blood runs through the North. Those that have the gift can hear the Weirwood trees dreaming with the gods below.”

“And the faces?”

“Dreams are one thing,” Lyanna murmured, “but the Children gave the Weirwood eyes with which to see.”

G endry became wary of the branches overhead. The North was a cold, frightening place. “Are there any Children left?”

“No one knows. Uncle Jeor thought so. He said the Freefolk beyond The Wall saw them often enough in the Haunted Forest. They haven’t been seen this side for hundreds of years.”

“And you, Lady Lyanna – do you have their blood?”

“Blackwood blood – that is what they call it. And the answer is _no_ but you do.  Gendry of the Waters, all you really are is a dragon that married a Blackwood. That is why your blood has value to the red witch, it contains two of her favourite things.”

G endry stared at the frozen world for a long time before shaking his head. “I don’t feel it,” he breathed, “whatever it is that you folk do. I look there at that snow and I think I’d rather the waves of the Blackwater.”

“You’ve never dreamed?”

“Only the things men dream of.”

Lyanna raised one of her thick eyebrows in amusement. There was nothing, it seemed, that surprised a bear.

“You then – you dream?”

She nodded as a fresh flurry of snowflakes caught in her hair. “Mostly of ice. There’s a place I go where the seas have frozen in the night. The surface is buckled with waves paused in the cold. It goes on forever… Nothing but white. That’s what I see.”  Lyanna did not tell him that she walked those ice fields as a white bear, heading into oblivion.

“These roots.”

“What?”

“Of them Weirwood trees,” Gendry clarified. “How deep to they go?”

“Deep as the mountains are high.”

They both lifted their heads. An ice wind tore at the canopy of the Godswood, bending the trees enough to glimpse the Southern tip of the _Frost Fangs._ It was an evil rise of stone, with snow draped over the black like white velvet. Mist rose off its vertical flanks like smoke as though it were on fire.

“I heard,” Gendry admitted, “about the fleet that sailed into the Bay of Ice. What will you do?”

“Break bread. Be the perfect host. They have not come for our small outcrop of rock in the sea – the Queen’s Eastern fleet are moored beside the ice cliffs that lurk beneath Eastwatch. Good luck to them, I say. No force has held that scrap of stone and lived out the year. It is a harsh place full of angry souls buried underfoot.”

###  **CASTLE BLACK – THE WALL**

Polished dragon scale had a pearl-like finish. The translucent surface caught the light and reflected it back in streams of colour, the same as spilled oil in the mud. It was strong too, light and sharp. Before Tormund left he’d given Littlefinger a roughly fashioned arrow head which he rolled over and over in his hand, considering it in the candlelight. The rest Tormund gave to the old Wildling women working in the armoury. They stored it away in the dark. _Castle Black_ was turning into a crypt full of trinkets men would never return for.

He stood beside one, even now. A sword laid against the wall with blood dried on the leather grip. Forgotten. Its owner roamed sightless through the snow.

“Right yer can come in...”

Littlefinger stirred at the scratch of Thorne’s voice dragging around the ajar door. It was chased by smoke, escaping the office. Dwindling forests forced _The Watch_ to burn green pine despite the layers of filth it produced. A wall of it seeped through Littlefinger’s skin as he entered and immediately took stock of the room. The Lord Commander’s office was small, freezing and desperate. He’d seen fishmongers and whores with more to their name than the Night’s Watch. Then there was Thorne’s raven. A filthy thing it perched on the back of his chair like a tentacle curled around the Salt Throne. Side to side its small head moved – each black eye getting a solid look at Littlefinger. _Corn. Corn. Corn._ It snapped its beak impatiently. _Corn._ Though its demands fell on deaf ears. Thorne was too busy staring at the boarded window and the foot-long icicles that had formed along its sill, hungry to consume the warmth.

“Do you have need of me, Commander Thorne?”

It took Thorne a moment to draw his attention from the window and stare down the mocking lord. “Drop the ceremony, Baelish. I _know_ you believe yourself hard done by being up ‘ere and all but the whole fuckin’ realm has an axe to grind when it comes to fate. Tell yer the truth, I wouldn’t like to be a god at a time like this. Forget prayers – the air is thick with screamin’ fucking misery. Had it myself this morning. A man with his hand removed at the wrist by a surgeon used to horses. Frostbite is nasty business. It’s the stink of it. There is nothing in this world like the stench of green flesh rotting on the limb. Poor bastard. Better ter die. What chance has he… Good hand fed to the dogs.”

Littlefinger reverted to silence. _Listen. Not to what people say but to what they try to hide._ The moment someone forced him to hold a sword, that day would be his last. He’d give the Commander no cause to hasten its approach.

“Aye, quiet bugger now, aren’t yer? Have no fear of causing shock, I remember when yer were born – an’ all that came after. Sweet on that Tully girl – all the good it did yer. They’re a hard lot, those river people. I’ve a new brother says Catelyn’s ghost wanders the swamp, eyes like stone and a strip of puckered flesh where they dragged the knife across her throat.” Thorne noted Baelish’s steely expression. He had an incredible talent for concealing his mind. A liar. “Tell me, how many languages did you pick up during your business enterprises?”

Littlefinger shifted under his black cloak. The coarse wool itched through the thin cotton shirt. It smelled of the dead boy who’d worn it before him. “A few. Some of them well – most of them less so. Dornish, I suppose. Braavosi. I understand a few screamed Dothraki words and I can barter with the Hill Tribes when the need arises.”

“High Valyrian...”

There was a palpable danger to the answer but even more so to a lie. “Naturally. I can read and write it well enough as any. My pronunciation is questionable. There are not many this side of the Narrow Sea that dare to speak it since it has _fallen out of fashion._ ”

“Makin’ a come back.”

“So I have heard.”

Thorne appreciated that Baelish was a smug bastard with a complex but his talents had value. “Good enough,” Thorne nodded, making his mind up. “Today’s your lucky day, Baelish.”

Petyr seriously doubted it.

“We’ve some foreign guests – made themselves at home.”

Petyr risked a step toward the desk. The crow fluttered its wings, shedding a feather. “Are you suggesting that I travel to Westwatch?”

Thorne stared dead at Littlefinger. “ _That_ information, however you came by it, is not fer you or _anyone else_. I understand that you have friends in high places, Baelish and that those friends share things with you that you’ve no right to know. Do me a favour and keep their contents to yerself or I’ll find myself in the mood to organise a ranging party and I’ll give _you_ the honour of leading it.”

Littlefinger’s reply was a curt nod. “Where then? Clearly you require a translator or I’d be training with those baker’s boys in the mud.”

“Aye, I do. Tormund needs you at Eastwatch. There were runners came this morning.”

Now Petyr was properly confused. It showed on his brow and the slight twist in his neck. “The Wildling king can speak High Valyrian. Tormund has an uncommon talent for foreign tongues.”

“He has decided not to let on…”

“So… While he listens to what our guests really think, I am to act as official mediator?”

“That’s about the sum of it. If I were you I’d take my chances with old words over frozen blades. You’ll take the path along the top of the wall and I’ll spare two rangers to keep you company. You’re a clever man so I am certain I don’t have to remind you that this Eastern army represents swords on The Wall. It might be in conflict to your nature but at The Wall we don’t give two shits for politics. Your goal is to keep the peace and make sure those cunts feel welcome and that nobody takes enough offence at their presence to start a fucking war. When the dead come I want as many vicious fucks waiting to greet them as humanly possible. That’s not going ter happen if we’ve turned ourselves into a tide of blood.”

Commander Thorne was one of the most weathered men in the _Seven Kingdoms_. Little surprised him and nothing slipped by without him taking note. That said, he was not so good at hiding his secrets. Littlefinger sniffed them out. “There was more…?”

Thorne nodded and produced a hastily scrawled parchment. “This came with the man sent to fetch you. Take it. See what you make of it.”

He did. “Old parchment,” noted Littlefinger, handling it. “Fresh ink. Probably spent a century in a desk before being dragged out. Written in a hurry, too. This is – well, that is to say, I know what it looks like but-”

“Get on with it, Baelish. This is not a test, it’s a question.”

“The note is written in Asshai’i – poorly copied, if the formation of the text is anything to go by.”

“Can you read it?”

Petyr scoffed. “No. There are barely a handful that could and fewer still that would admit to it. You – you want their names...” He sighed, shaking his head. For once he didn’t know what was going on. “Certainly Leyton Hightower. He traded in writing with merchants for artefacts in Asshai. That mad bastard Marwyn, if he’s still alive. Varys – _maybe_ although he may have exaggerated his talents and a sea captain used to run a smuggling ring for Stannis Baratheon. Of course, there are others but you’d have to cross the Jade Sea to find them.”

“I will start with Hightower. At least we know where to bloody find him.” Thorne hesitated, eyeing Baelish carefully until the lord became uneasy. “You’ll need more than that to wear. Eastwatch is a fucking bitch of a castle. That end of the world… Mark my words, that place _wants_ to kill. It ain’t just the cold. There’s a filthy magic in that part of the realm. Yer get used to it, living on The Wall but there are still places where it rises up and smacks you on the face.”

Littlefinger’s lips pressed into a wry smile.

“Ah… Yer don’t believe in magic, do you?” Thorne ran his finger down the crow’s neck. It ruffled its feathers up against his flesh. “Take care, Baelish. Magic doesn’t require belief to slaughter.”

*~*~*

Days travelling along the cusp of _The Wall_ gave Littlefinger a feel for the rhythm of the world. Living in _King’s Landing_ he’d forgotten. Cities were deaf. _Riverrun_ had seasons but they were often from one tide of wet to the next. Endless downpours that endured for months until the marshes became bogs and eventually expansive lakes consumed everything from _Tumbleton_ to _Fairmarket._ Cat used to whisper in his ear that there were faces in the water. Dead staring out from their graves. Floating to the surface to drift in effervescent rivers, travelling to their gods in the sea. Another of her honey-lies. He learned his trade from her. No matter how many falsities she wove in his mind, he loved her all the more.

_Was she there_ , he wondered, wandering as a veil of white flesh – hiding in the reeds with nails like claws waiting to snatch fishermen to their deaths? Death preserving her hatred and giving it breath… If he thought it were true, he’d wade into the waters and fall into her embrace.  Pay his painted rocks to the Seven. Lay in their cold hearth...

_The Fingers_ in the _Vale of Arryn_ were different  to the _Riverlands_. They had seasons driven by the wind. In the Summer it brought the storms  which built all day over the water until monstrous caverns surged, thick and grey as the hell at _Old Valyria_ then they broke over the fishing settlements in roars of light and fury. Terror, so overwhelming, that they hid in the sea caves, lit fires and told stories from the _Dawn_.  Winter winds never stopped. Instead of storms they dragged sleet and snow straight off the razor-peaks. _The Mountains of the Moon_ vanished under white coats that cracked at the lightest touch and sent avalanches into the farmland below  leaving their grey-green peaks protruding line bone from a corpse.

W hich brought Littlefinger back to  _The Wall_ .  It was a peculiar perspective, living on the precipice  between opposing fronts .  The longer he looked, the more  those fronts began to blur into a single existence. Both were frozen hells.  It was  _The Wall_ that  rang foreign and unnatural  upon the landscape , creating a divide.

The _Frost Fangs_ was a single range of mountains, running up the Western edge of the continent creating a bump in _The Wall’s_ height where it was forced to cross. In front to his left, the _Haunted Forest_ butted against _The Wall_ , thick and covered in heavy snow. From this height, he could see the corpses of felled trees poking out of the snow where the open plains towards _Mole’s Town_ had once been a dense forest.

For the first time, Littlefinger considered _The Wall_. Not its grand presence or fearsome exterior but rather what it _meant_.

He stopped dead.

The two watchmen tagging behind sank in together, sharing a swig of stolen whisky and whispering in heavy _Stormland_ accents, grateful for the pause. Littlefinger knelt beside the short rise of ice that stopped men slipping to their deaths. _The Wall_ was not made from ‘blocks’ of ice cut from a distant lake. He’d seen plenty of dwellings like that. No… This surface was smooth – faultless. It rose from the ground as the mountains did – a single slab of hell. There was no possibility that _First Men_ built this wall with a few ropes tethered to mammoths and a giant on the side. The black forts pressed into the ice, he’d grant to their merit. Those were the same ugly wrecks as everything else up this way. There was one not far from where they stood – _Sable Hall_. Another monstrosity good for nothing but howling wind. A sad trail of smoke suggested that some poor mob of Night’s Watch were trying to rekindle life in its decrepit bones. Good luck to them. If _The Wall_ fell, the castles would be no good to anyone. They were about as much use as crow’s nests on the mast of a ship.

“Why did they build The Wall?” Petyr asked his disinterested brethren. It was a startling fact, entirely ignored. There was a huge, frozen lump of _fact_ washing about in a tide of whispers.

“Stupid fuck,” one hissed, slightly drunk. He staggered to his feet and leaned back on the ice. “Everyone knows. Keep the bloody Wildlings out. Savage cunts. Good for a fuck if yer keen.” Then they laughed. It was clear they had butchered their way through life for too long.

“That is a fabrication.” Petyr replied. “Created later, I’d wager, when a few doe-eyed maesters got around to laying eyes on this thing.” He shook his head. The bloody _Wall_ was a snake on the landscape, twisting up and down as far as anyone could see from horizon to horizon. Its immensity was such that it _became_ the landscape. “No - _no_...” Littlefinger’s pace evolved a swagger, deepening as his mind ticked over. Oh he _loved_ this – solving puzzles. There were games afoot. _Old games._ The players dead – or worse. “The Wall was built during the Age of Heroes,” he continued, though his audience were mid-drag on barrow-weed, “when the Free Folk and Northern Men were indistinguishable from one another. Same stock. First Men. I heard the stories enough times when I was young. It was all tribes in these parts. Ah… You lot are from the Stormlands. It wasn’t the same. Up here we had fragile communities picking out a living in the forests. Their kings were the strongest. Power when power meant something. See...” Littlefinger pointed out a few petrified relics down below. “The pines grew thick right the way over these fields of snow. Something killed the trees.”

“Maybe they burned the forests,” the other man replied, more seriously. He had the look of a bastard. “They was fighting the Children of the Forest. Makes sense. No forest, no Children.”

Petyr nodded. _Possible_. “This wall is for the dead, of that I am certain. A thousand feet of ice. Terror builds walls.” He gripped the ice beside him in frustration. “You’d _think_ that the largest conflict in the history of Westeros might have better records. Those maesters toil for naught in their ivory tower. They bury lies under piles of inconsequential truths. Still, there is one relic that time and ambivalence could not erase...” And Littlefinger was standing on it.

“What does it matter why The Wall was built? It’s ‘ere.”

“On the contrary,” Petyr replied. “The _why,_ the _who_ and the _how_ will be the only thing that saves us when the darkness sets in.”

Petyr cast his eye South towards a stain of smoke. _Winterfell,_ nestled closer than he’d like to oblivion. Every fibre of his soul screamed at him to _run_. To cross _The Narrow Sea_ and hide in some rat-infested shadow to wait out the night but when he looked toward _Winterfell_ he felt an ache in his heart. Sansa had him tethered to the North like a ship to port in a storm. All he could hope was that he did not dash himself upon the rocks.

*~*~*

He heard the cages swing in the darkness long before his torchlight fluttered across their rusted surfaces. The air at _Eastwatch_ was thick with salt and ate away the steel, tearing like the gnash of curved fangs at any scrap of civilisation that dared to perch from its icy shore. Swords crumbled to nothing. The great latticeworks of scaffolding groaned and collapsed at the touch of passing storms. Only the stone remained, mined from the pit beside the fortress. It lay as a frozen lake filled with rubble.

Littlefinger hissed at his companions to stop. It was the dead of night and a fog had rolled in from _Skagos,_ suffocating the stars. The pitch hid everything not immediate to their torchlight and so the world unfolded, one terrifying step at a time. They had watched the castle approach. It cast a glow on the ice which you could see for days but the hides scattered along the top of _The Wall_ appeared from nowhere. Their thatch roves were buried under several feet of fresh snow and no one had bothered to clear them out.

The only sign that _Eastwatch_ was manned were the cages strung up on the walkway along _The Wall_. It was so cold that not even crows came to pick at what lay inside.

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” One of the _Night’s Watchmen_ lowered his torch.

There were three cages, each containing pieces of the _Night’s Watchmen_ that had come in the earlier party with Dacey and Tormund. One cage held butchered heads, piled atop one another along with hands and feet. The next was an offering of sorts – entrails and organs snap frozen by the cold but no less horrific. Some of them dangled through the bars with a matching red stain on the ice beneath. The last cage contained whatever was left except for the skin – that had been flayed off the corpses, stretched and laid over the roof of the hide, nailed in place.

“Wait!” Whispered Littlefinger firmly, heart ramming against his chest plate. “We have no idea what happened here.”

“No idea? No bloody idea?” One of them gaped. “I tell yer what happened. Those savage Eastern cunts butchered our brothers.”

“Lower your voice...” Petyr warned.

“Torn ter fucking _bits!_ ”

“Why?”

“Why? Who the shit cares _why_?”

“The Lord Commander was clear – we were sent here to ensure peace. If we go down to the castle with anything other than pleasantries we may find ourselves occupying cages before the hour is out. That serves no one but death.”

“I ain’ going _anywhere_.” The crow insisted, eyes latched onto the sight. “I don’t care what vows I cursed. This – this isn’t war. I-I won’t...”

Littlefinger did not shy away from the callous display. Instead he crowded the panicked man, boxing him against the ice so that he was sure to feel its touch through his leathers. “You think this is war? It is _theatre_. I have seen worse productions hung on spikes from the walls of King’s Landing. If I were a betting man I would wager these men earned their current accommodation. Stay here...” Littlefinger offered, stepping back to give the man room to draw the freezing air into his lungs. “I will go alone.”

“You wear the same cloak as us,” the other man said. “What makes you think they won’ up an’ tear your wings off? You are not a lord any more than I am a bastard.”

“ _Faith_ my friend,” Littlefinger purred.

“The gods piss on you – old an’ new.”

“Faith in _one’s self_.”

“Be our guest...” The other brother opened his arms, stepping aside so that Littlefinger could pass.

“Not afraid of the Lord Commander’s wrath?”

“The Lord Commander isn’t here,” he replied, “and you’ll be dead before the dawn.”

The brothers watched Littlefinger throw his leg over the gap on the Southern side of the wall and awkwardly take to the wooden ladder. They were left with the periodic squeak of its rotten chains.

“High born,” the brother scoffed, as snow fell out of the air and a strange chill climbed up _The Wall_. “They think they have a shield around ‘em.”

“Baelish isn’t high born.”

“Close enough. An’ yer know, maybe it’s true – when they’ve got their armies and slaves to hold swords to shadows but when they fall back to the ground they’re just like us. Bone. Blood. S’all we are. Puppets for the gods.”

“Are we going or not?” The younger of the two pulled his cloak tighter around his shivering body.

“Yeah.” He finally answered, after staring at the cages for some time. “Fuck all this. If I’m going ter die let it be in the Summer Isles.”

*~*~*

Opportunity and risk flirted in Petyr’s mind after he set loose his minders. Around they went, dancing in waves of temptation – whispering warm thoughts like _freedom from his banishment_. He pushed those aside, reminding himself that his oath was not to the white tree or the malignant brotherhood that enforced it but to _Sansa._

Serving her prompted him to drop the torch in a rush of panicked flame to the platform beneath. There it lay while he descended the ladder. When he reached the platform he found it to be an unsteady, weathered construction that creaked ominously underfoot as though it might give at any moment.

The next ladder waited. Littlefinger cautiously approached the rail beside it and peered nine hundred feet down to _Eastwatch_ castle. It was built so close to the edge of _The Wall_ that significant parts of the ice showed signs of physical strain. Vertical cracks, which in some cases widened into gulfs vast enough for wind and snow to howl through. His stomach dropped when he saw the assortment of ladders and lifts below, repeated like two mirrors placed beside one another. On and on and on it went.

Well, Littlefinger reasoned with himself, if they were sound enough to drag those Crow corpses up in their cages they were probably sufficient to hold his weight. It took him most of the night to make the trip and the only company he kept was a light snow and heavy fog, curling up from the _Bay of Seals_. Every now and then the wind parted it momentarily and Littlefinger was able to catch a glimpse of the moored fleet. He had never seen so many ships in one stretch of water.

*~*~*

In the hour before dawn, the sea mist rose up off the bay as a single sheet and smothered the castle, creating a false sky that hung a few hundred feet above their heads. It was surreal. The squatters at _Eastwatch_ burned _Ironwood_ from scuttled ships creating eerie blue flames that danced in the night. They lit _The Wall_ transforming the entire scene into an aquatic vista and _Eastwatch_ a sunken pebble.

The guards spotted Littlefinger a long way off and loitered, waiting for him to climb down to their position. When he did, Littlefinger immediately dropped his torch and held his hands over his head in obvious surrender. _Jogos Nai_ – in the flesh. There was no mistaking those cone-heads formed by the cruel binding of fabric around the heads of infants and the brightly dyed strips of silk tied around their girth. Any that didn’t take to the shape were taken into the _Great Sand Sea_ and buried alive to honour their horse gods. The _Screaming Seas –_ that’s what they called the sand around the _Leviathan Sound._ There were tent cities overlooking the water and patches of _ghostgrass_ high as houses.

“Bu Gai...” Littlefinger said, hoping they’d be confused enough to present him to their leader instead of slitting his stomach open. “Bu Gai – Bu Gai – Bu Gai...” Over and over like the Lord Commander’s crow, with only one word with which to sway his life.

Presently, Littlefinger was roughly disarmed of his sword and ushered through the innards of _Eastwatch_. The cracks in the ice extended to the castle itself where some of the largest had forced apart the stone. It existed in a symbiosis with the ice and together they were dying, falling – Littlefinger suspected – towards the water. Every now and then a flourish of colour broke the black and white. Roses, blue and small poked out from the cracks. He reached for one, brushing its petals until a horselord shoved him forwards with an impatient growl.

Eventually they stopped outside an inner room that had a wreak of desperation. There were more guards here who exchanged harsh words with Littlefinger’s escort, jostling each other with their shoulders. They must have come to the conclusion that Littlefinger was of little physical threat because they opened the doors and forced him inside, tripping him up so that he slammed into the doorway.

The Prince of Yin lay in a disarming sight amid his bed of straw, gazing at more of the strange blue firelight. There was scraps of old ship sails laid over the stone like rugs in a vain attempt to keep out the frost. Sand fox, rabbit and grey lion pelts were layered over the prince. Littlefinger averted his gaze from their eyeless heads.

He clutched his hands behind his back in a gesture of submission then knelt onto the ground, bowed low until Littlefinger’s head touched the stone floor. That is how things were done in _Yin_. The common folk bowed to their god-like lords and humbled themselves to curry favour. A fact learned from his exotic whores.

With his palms on the filthy surface, Littlefinger began, _“I_ _have been sent by order of Lord Commander_ _Thorne_ _of the Night’s Watch so that we may communicate,”_ in flawless High Valyrian. _“And in this capacity I would like to welcome you to Westeros, Prince Bu Gai,_ _Seventeenth of the Azure emperors – God-Emperor of Yi Ti._ _You and these people with whom you travel are most welcome_ _in these frozen lands_ _.”_

He wondered where Dacey and Tormund were. Hopefully not in private cages. A murdered  _Wildling_ king  was unlikely to go down well in these parts.

Bu Gai took his time manoeuvring into a seated position, propped against the  wall . He was thin and ancient looking – himself a ruin  with sickness infesting his flesh .  _“Tell me, is it customary to attack friends in times of peace?”_

Littlefinger rocked back off his knees but remained on the floor. He had not been asked to stand. _“Excuse my ignorance, to what do you refer?”_

“ _My charge. A man from Lorath with whom we have been travelling these long months. He was under my protection yet your sworn brethren,”_ Bu Gai paused to point at Littlefinger’s black cloak, _“saw fit to abuse him such that my priests believe him present to meet the gods.”_

Killing a monarch’s favourite pet was not an ideal beginning… _“Those, I take it, are the Night’s Watchmen in the cages at the top of The Wall?”_ Littlefinger waited as Bu Gai nodded. _“They acted alone and have been punished accordingly. For whatever they have done, I offer an apology.”_ And so Littlefinger continued, grovelling until Bu Gai tired of his empty words.

“ _I am too tired to hear your pleas this night.”_

“ _Your Grace is unwell...”_ Littlefinger offered cautiously. _“There are healers not far for which I could send.”_

Bu Gai waved the request to nothing.  _“Healers cannot amend the curses gods bestow. I have priests for that but not even they can lance the poison from my blood. I will die in this wretched place.”_

“ _And – the others that were here. A Mormont and a King?”_

“ _Left several days ago on a ship headed South. They seek a queen and her dragons.”_ Bu Gai closed his eyes. Insidious cold crept into his bones and though his strength came and went like the sighing of the wind, his moments of health were becoming ever more fleeting. _“The queen dreamed this place,”_ he warned Littlefinger, _“and all that we see now. Make no bones, we are here to fight the real war. The last war. The war that comes upon us each time longer and darker. Our empire is lost.”_ He opened his eyes and touched the castle wall. _“Hope is a wall and this is ours.”_

“ _All of Yin is lost?”_ Littlefinger was not sure he had heard correctly.

“ _In one afternoon.”_ Then Bu Gai nodded to the horselord guards. They surged forward and took Littlefinger roughly by his arms, dragging him across the ground. _“We will speak again but not tonight. I am tired.”_

Littlefinger wrestled against the small men but they were stronger than they looked. He was dragged through the castle and out into the frozen courtyard where the permafrost had melted around a large blue bonfire. Thousands seethed inside the space and trailed out over short field in front of the shore. A rudimentary supply line had been built to the fleet which had emerged with the lifting fog.  Thousands and thousands and thousands. A floating city.

He bucked suddenly, catching sight of an ominous cage. “No –  _no!_ ” Littlefinger riled against his captors but they set him in the cage like a fucking lord’s bird then left him alone out in the snow with a view of _The Wall_ and the  _Bay of Seals_ on his right.

###  **RED KEEP – KING’S LANDING**

Varys knocked the glass inkwell from Tywin’s desk in fright. It shattered on the stone with a catastrophe of black. Ink welled in the tracks between the tiles and ran off, following the alarming slant the tower had taken on since the explosions. Not for the first time. Evidence of violence was scattered through its interior. A room that had seen its share of terrible things.

“You _should not_ be here...” Varys hissed, saving papers from the spill. The desk was surrounded by piles of financial records, almost illegible trade agreements and previously secret correspondence with the other Lords of Westeros.

Jaqen H’ghar had been concealed in the room for some time, reclined on the open window sill, encompassed by shadow. He liked to watch people. That is how the Faceless Men learned about their prey. To be someone you had to understand their behaved when the world closed its eyes. _Truth_ in the eyes of the blind. “A man should not be anywhere. He is nowhere.”

Varys dumped a pile of hefty books on the table, rattling his wine glass against the bottle he’d found in cupboard behind Tywin’s desk. For all his posturing, Varys discovered the great Lord Tywin was perfectly human – vices in every corner. “Spare me the religious dogma.” He wiped a glean of sweat from his forehead. “I have had my fill of well meaning messiahs.” Varys sank into the chair. There was a blood stain across the bed where a noble had been torn in two by The Mountain. “I have lived nearly my whole adult life inside these walls,” Varys added, gesturing at Tywin’s old quarters. “Not this particular room but the Keep, in all its horrid glory – I know her. Why then do I feel like an outsider?” He shook away the moment of madness. “What good is it telling you? You were _born_ an outsider.”

“A home can be a prison,” Jaqen said quietly. “I watched mine _burn_.”

“So did I!” He snapped. Varys looked to the window and the distant flames. “There are things for you to be getting on with. I paid for a name.”

“The Many Faced God is owed a name and he will have it,” Jaqen assured Lord Varys. The pair of dragons were flying again – picking bodies from the sea. They’d feast until they were too heavy for their wings.

“I may have lost touch with my network of child-spies but even I know that the name you seek is in the North. You will get us all killed, lingering in the Capital. If the Queen finds out what you did we will _both_ need new faces.”

“Names are not all a god requires… My god has found another way to speak.”

“A crisis of faith – is that what this is?” Varys would laugh if he wasn’t so fucking tired. He couldn’t think with the stench of burned flesh sitting in the room. “I don’t have time for-”

“The Bastard King Snow woke from death a second time. A man put him in the ground with his own hands but Snow would not stay. When god speaks, a man listens. He finds a new way.”

“How convenient,” Varys shoved a particularly thick novel on the Kingdom’s finances to one side. “When a god does something inexplicable you put it down to a misunderstanding. If that fails, a change of heart is in order. When kings do the same we call it _betrayal._ ”

“Is the burning of King’s Landing a betrayal by your queen?”

Varys choked on his own laughter. He was so far beyond reason he was almost drunk on absurdity. “Perfect. A Valyrian slave spouting hypocrisy and following a would-be dragon king – the very symbol of your people’s oppression.” _Yes_ , he knew exactly who Jaqen was when he wasn’t hiding behind the faces of the dead. “Where, may I ask, did the Many Faced God come from? He is a young god. Conjecture is that he is merely an amalgamation of the first gods – the _old gods_ that live in the air and waves – ice and stars that look down from their evening perches. Yes, their bones are worshipped from one end of the realm to the other. When I look at the world I don’t see the gods. I hear _silence_ in the leaves of the Weirwood. From East to West I’ve listened to the mad wailings of the devout. It’s nothing but coached human fear preyed upon by institutions that make their wealth from misery.” He shook his head, remembering the flames and the warlock that beckoned them. “The only voice I ever heard in the flames belonged to a _child_ – whispering through the smoke and fire. There are no gods – just us. We have been all alone with ourselves for these thousands and thousands of years. Fucking and killing. _Forgetting…_ We have _no idea_ what we’re capable of when the night comes. Oh, we try to write it down. Our grandparents sing the songs to us when we’re small but grown men do not listen. It has sent us somewhat mad.”

“The name will be presented...”

Varys would believe that when he saw it. “Preferably while I am still alive to enjoy the offering. Now, if you will excuse me, I have decades of paperwork to go pick apart and an empire in free fall. I cannot stop you from staying in the city but if you do, keep your distance from Lord Tyrion. He has a mind to murder you.”

*~*~*

_The ground beneath Valyria breathed. Its fourteen mountain peaks shifted like scales on the back of a dragon. Smoke trailed from several tips, transitioning from white to thick plumes of grey ash. Slaves ran screaming from the mines and walked into the mournful cry of a dozen dragons circling, shrieking for their nests. Jaqen emerged from a chasm in the rock, black with soot, in time to watch pools of water become geysers spewing sulphuric acid into the air. Opposite, standing on a mountain ledge, was a young woman with silver hair. Not quite real, she was washed in and out of focus by the smoke._

Jaqen startled from sleep – knife pressed to Davos’ throat.

“Easy – fook’s sake...” Davos flinched at the familiar press of steel to his veins. He waited for the assassin to relax and remove his blade. “Didn’t mean ter wake yer but the Queen’s army is movin’ off from ‘ere. They’re taking us around ter the Western flank of the city where the fields aren’t made o’ mud.”

It was morning – just about. There was no sun but its glow neared the watery horizon. Thick layers of smoke curled in the water but even that was blowing away. There were fewer ships. Those sagging in evening had slipped beneath the currents.

Jaqen sat up and held his face in his hands. Pain throbbed beneath his skin.

“Nightmares?” Asked Davos. “We all ‘ave ‘em.”

“We are dead men,” Jaqen murmured, “ghosting through the world – faces worn by the living.” He looked up to the Onion Night. The rest of the camp rattled to life, moving themselves on command. “In all the years that I have suffered I have _never_ seen a man torn from death. This Snow – Stark – _Targaryen_ -”

“Hush! For gods’ sake...” Davos looked around, making sure they weren’t heard.

“His name is not important. He is _nameless_ , like god. Perhaps I should have listened when his kin knocked at my door.” Instead of listening he had given Arya Stark a name and sent her into the world.

Davos straightened up. “You always this bloody cheery first thing?”

*~*~*

Jorah found Tyrion in the throne room, seated on the floor beneath his sister’s corpse with an empty bottle of wine smashed during the night. The dwarf was awake and staring at her. The only soul in the cavernous hall. He looked like a statue from the ruins of _Valyria_ , covered in ash – silent in the horror.

“Enough of this...” Jorah strode through the throne room without his battle armour. He wore a new cloak – white, unique – with three embroidered dragons chasing each other in a circle. Matched with the dark grey undergarments he look less a knight and more a _king_.

“W-what are you doing?” Tyrion scrambled to his feet – swayed – and fell onto the floor where Jorah easily navigated him.

“Something I should have done last night,” Jorah replied, as he climbed the steps to the throne. He bent down and prised the stiff corpse from the Iron Throne and hoisted the hellish thing into his arms.

Tyrion lost his nerve to argue as Jorah walked with Cersei’s dead weight down the steps and started to cross the hall. He sobered himself up enough to follow. “You _can’t_ ,” he insisted, stumbling after Jorah. “The Queen’s orders were _clear_.”

“The message has been received by all capable of understanding it,” Jorah assured the other man. “It does us no good to leave Cersei rotting on the throne – not when that throne belongs to the rightful heir. Forgive me but it is better for Daenerys to return to a realm washed clean of violence. I’ve seen the alternative. It did not end well.”

“Meereen was fucked before our Queen set foot inside its walls.” Tyrion waited but Mormont offered no answer, he simply continued toward the broken doors. “Where are you taking her?”

“The Dragonpit. There’s a fire been made. She will burn with the birds.”

Though the hour was early, survivors of the conquest came out to watch Ser Jorah carry Cersei’s body along the cobbled passages and collapsed buildings. They did not have the strength to jeer as the golden-haired lion made her final passage toward the rise of stone that lay at the end of the street. The _Dragonpit_ remained hidden from view except for the tower of smoke. During the night its flames had died down but with the rising of the sun it would enrage itself and start afresh. There were tears on Tyrion’s face. Relief or grief, Jorah could not say. The stone in the streets had a flush of cool from the evening. It created pockets of mist which swirled away from his footsteps.

_Grim._ Jorah stopped at the stone entrance. There was a pile of corpses, roughly collected at the heart of the pit. The spectator steps that ringed the entire arena were full of makeshift livings with desperate people sleeping under the morbid glow of warmth. It was not the first time Jorah had laid eyes on a massacre. The bodies had merged into a pile of black limbs, fused like the swords on the Iron Throne. Some glowed with the heat – others collapsed into ash.

The heat pushed against Tyrion, leaving him unable to follow the knight as he approached the pyre. He spent a moment standing close to the flame. It licked around him, never daring to touch his flesh. Then he heaved the corpse – tossing it a short distance onto the slope. Cersei rolled once then ended, face to the flame. Her hair caught – then her clothes. Soon she became a bright surge of flame and Jorah stepped away, turning his back on the sight.

“Better there be nothing left of her,” Jorah said quietly, as he approached Tyrion. Tyrion’s eyes were fixated, watching the fire tear apart what remained of his sister. “Nothing for others to take as a trophy – nothing for the dead to resurrect.”

Tyrion nodded but found no words.

Jorah laid a hand on the imp’s shoulder, resting it there in a form of solidarity.

“When-when...” Tyrion stuttered as he tried to speak. “When I saw the Queen’s dragon soar over the lip of the fighting pit in Meereen, I could not fucking believe it. Honestly. Those creatures take your sense from you. For a moment – or _years_ I’d say – you lose perspective. You see them as _magic_. As the gods playing on Earth.” He wondered if that had been what is was like for Mormont watching Daenerys step out of the bonfire with three infant dragons clutching onto her naked flesh. “Then one day you wake up after a night spent sleeping in ash and you see scaled demons unfurl their leathery wings and sing to sleeping gods who dream terrifying things from their prisons beneath the sea. Only then do the pieces of malice fall into place.” He spoke as the corpses on the fire rearranged themselves, trapped in a continuous hell. “For one moment – and _only_ in that moment – the madness sets and truth flickers into view like the green flash before the sun dies in the Sunset Sea.”

Jorah had been taught not to speak ill of the dead so he stared silently at the flames.

“It was not always _Jaime_ with my sister. I remember when the only thing she desired of the world was to marry prince Rhaegar. Yes, the match would make her ‘queen’ but she considered herself genuinely in love. Personally I thought the prince was a weak, selfish, average-looking, unpredictable coward.”

“Daenerys said it was meant to be _her_ that married Rhaegar, if only she had been born earlier,” Jorah finally replied, his voice slow and considered.

“She is nothing like her brother. There, I think, you would agree.”

“Rhaegar would not have survived years in the Great Grass Sea on horseback with the Dothraki, that is certainly true,” Jorah replied. “Though they shared a connection to religious mythos. He called his male children _Aegon_ in the hope they’d manifest into the promised hero but the gods do not sing our songs.”

“Rhaegar is a _dream_ ,” Tyrion breathed, “one that the Queen would dismiss if she were to meet him in the flesh. You need only look at the men she chooses. Warriors. Kings. Killers.” And the Mormont beside him encompassed all three. “Whether he stole the Stark girl or not, his choices tore the realm into a thousand pieces. My sister...”

“Cersei’s troubles are over,” Jorah added quietly. The flames were dying and the walls around the pit were shifting from gold to grey as the sun lifted up from the water and broke the night. “Ours are only beginning. Have you heard from your brother?”

Tyrion scoffed. “No – and if I had I would not tell you.”

“I would prefer Jaime Lannister to remain among the living. He heads a sizeable force – they were always more his than your sister’s. If he can be swayed to our side it’ll be one less blood-letting.”

“Jaime killed Daenerys’ father. I’m not a fool, despite jokes to my size. Sanctioned or not, the Queen _will_ find a way to murder my brother.”

“Then tell him to remain in the North,” Jorah advised. “It is possible to wage war for a hundred years and never meet.”

“You are not worried that he will chase the Iron Throne?”

This time Jorah turned to Tyrion and said, quite seriously, “Honour, family, loyalty. He is a soldier _first_.”

“Is this like the pyre you saw the Queen walk from with her dragons?”

Jorah shook his head. “No. That was built with thatch and desert Willow. We laid the Kharl on an elevated platform and tied the witch to one of its pillars – hissing and screaming chants so wretched I thought they must come from The Doom. Then we fashioned a huge circle of bundled grass around the outside and soaked it with oil. I was terrified. There were stories in the East of Khaleesi that lay with their lords and journeyed on their arm into the realm of the dead – burned alive, side by side. Their screams were thought to wake the gods. She lay her wedding gift – the dragon eggs – around Kharl Drogo. When it came time to light the pyre she took the torch from my hand and lowered it to the grass. Alight, the witches’ words became shrieks of agony. Daenerys walked into the fire. I watched for as long as I could bear – as her white dress caught in the fire and the smoke smothered her from view. For all that long night the Khalasaar waited. By morning most had left to find themselves a new Kharl. Strength is the only honour among the Dothraki. There was nothing left of the pyre except blackened ground. I woke after a dreamless night and walked toward the ash. I planned to take her bones and bury them in the Earth – say the words of the Old Gods to honour her family blood and to pay proper respect to the death of a Great House.”

“But you did not find bones...”

“No. I found _Daenerys,_ her silver hair dancing in the wind and three tiny dragons latched onto her flesh as children clutch at their mother. Be under no illusion, Tyrion. Her dragons _are_ the Queen’s children. They will kill for her. They protect her above all else. They know no honour except love. There is nothing more dangerous or blind upon the Earth.”

###  **HIGHGARDEN – THE REACH**

Sam had never seen his home from above except on his father’s maps. _Horn Hill_ was truly a perch upon the feet of the _Red Mountains_ , occupying one of the impish hills that were pushed up from the marshes. His home was made of white stone sent pink in the morning light. Sculpted trees with twisted trunks and heavy heads cast long, hammer-shaped shadows over the grasslands. It was an outcrop of civilisation compared to the sodden ground and fallen castles that littered the _Dornish Marshes_ all the way from the singing towers of the burned _Nightsong_ fortress.

_Horn Hill_ paled when compared to its grander cousin –  _Highgarden_ . Sam could see the clear line around the rise of ground where marsh turned to lush fields and vineyards. Blessed by nameless gods, the terraced flanks of the hill dripped with fruit while the walls grew flowers in their millions. The buzz from bee colonies filled the air in a constant drone of life.  Rambling roses, shaped hedges in honour of The Seven, rockeries and fountains. There was nowhere more beautiful set by the hands of man except perhaps the ruins in the  _Rhoyne_ .

T he Queen shifted, sliding her legs over  _Drogon’s_ back so that she could look over his wing and point to the ground. “There waits your father’s army,” she said to Sam. “He amassed them in the night and soon those gates will open and they’ll spill onto the fields that separate the castles.”

“We passed the Tyrell army several hours ago,” Sam replied. “They had not made it as far as the Bitterbridge.”

“And they won’t make it to Highgarden for the best part of four days. It will be rubble by then and your father will preside over two dominions.”

Sam looked away. He did not want to see  _Highgarden_ destroyed any more than his own home. They were places of beauty and life. These were not castles made for war.

Now it was  _Drogon’s_ shadow that tracked across the fields as he sank low. He’d been sighted by the guards at  _Highgarden_ , who lit torches on the wall.

There were three rings of rock around  _Highgarden_ , each higher than the last. Between two lay the labyrinth of thorn hedges, ancient and formidable.  The fiery heads of three Weirwoods grew furiously from the depths of the Godswood while hundreds of birds cried out in alarm as the dragon’s shadow crossed their home.

* ~*~*

_Drogon_ sank his claws into the castle turret, landing on a vertical angle with Sam clinging to the harness in terror. There was shouting below but all Sam could think of was the fall and his own head smashed against the ground beneath. Daenerys had no fear. Untangling herself from the leather straps, she scaled  _Drogon_ using his horns and scales to climb out over his shoulder and down, landing on the balcony beneath his wing.

Sam knew it was expected that he follow. The dragon waited, clutched at  _Highgarden’s_ castle.  Heavy and unsteady in the air, Sam unhooked the tethers that wrapped around his girth. “Easy –  _easy_ ...” He begged  _Drogon_ , when the dragon shifted beneath. Sam reached up and took hold of the horns protruding from between  _Drogon’s_ thick, black scales.

He hit the balcony as a trembling mess. For a moment, he stayed upon the ground, simply happy for the pleasure of breath inside his lungs. Then he saw the Tyrell guards nodding to Daenerys and several princes of the realm deep in conversation. All at once, the eyes turned on Sam. Piercing and hostile. The Queen lifted her hand to still hands from swords.

They were taken into the perfumed castle.  White b anners hung over the walls.  Each had a green hand embroidered at their heart.  _House Gardner_ , extinct except for these standards left to collect dust.  Other relics lined the room and Sam realised that this forgotten tower was a shrine to times past.

“Where are we going?” Asked Sam, walking beside Daenerys as the procession twisted through the castle, heading down spiralling stairwells.

H is answer was a room in an ancient part of the castle. Squat and formed with grey blocks pulled from the  _Red Mountains_ , it shared more than a passing resemblance to its ugly cousins in the North. There were echoes of  _Winterfell_ in its squashed towers and rot that lived between the stones. Sam and the Queen followed the Tyrell guards into the windowless depths until the only sound beside the flames was trickling water.

Like a crypt, the chamber was featureless. The guards formed a circle around a pile of ash and wood at its heart.

“That’s not-” but it _was_ , Sam realised. The _Oakenseat_. The original throne of the Gardener kings. A living seat from which the ancestors ruled and like all living things, it had died. This time in war against the Dornish.

Daenerys knelt on the stone before the _Oakenseat_. Placed her hands on the wretched moss and let the filth of death run through her veins. She listened to the darkness. Showed reverence for the precious, dried heart of _Highgarden_ and heard the distant flap of wings.

Afterwards, she and Sam sat among the garden. While what remained of the castle forced readied for war, Daenerys braided her hair, attaching silver pins with dragon figurines on their tips. “What did it mean?” he asked. “The Tyrell’s never sat on the Oakenseat. It was destroyed long before they took up power. Surely it means nothing to them?”

“Not everything is about who we were born as,” Daenerys replied carefully. “What matters is what we will become after the fire has at our corspe. Smoke. Ash. Or are we simply salt after the snow?”

Sam didn’t know what that meant either and returned his attention to the view.  _Horn Hill_ glistened in the distance. Thousands of shields caught the light, spreading out from the castle walls. His father’s army was amassing fast and the Queen sought to meet them  _alone_ .

“You could very well die here,” Sam warned her. “Despite my father’s faults, he knows how to win a fight.”

“I don’t die here, Samwell Tarly,” she replied, simply. “Therefore I _can’t_.”

* ~*~*

Daenerys waited for Tarly’s forces to clear  _Horn Hill_ and stagger out of the mountains’ shadow. They were a sight of beauty – marching in perfect discipline as if they were one creature unfurling onto the landscape.  Viserys would have drooled to  think of them at his will. He did not have the  vision to imagine the breadth of horror that came from the lips of a dragon.

She took to the air with  _Drogon_ . Stained and stinking of  _King’s Landing_ , Daenerys circled the front lines. Randall Tarly hung back behind the first few legions of his men, using them as a transient wall. His son brought up the far left flank with a guard of his own.

*~*~*

The soldiers on the field saw the dragon the moment it took to the air. First a shadow on the dawn, it grew closer and closer, inflating on the sky until it  _filled_ their vision. A great, black, scaled demon. There was panic at the front. Knees dropped to the grass. Shields raised. Shells of steel formed as men huddled beneath in turtle-formations with spears thrust through the gaps. A perfect action against living men but for a dragon roaring into view – mouth open, the soldiers had done nothing but seal themselves up like mutton in an urn.

###  **RED KEEP – KING’S LANDING**

Varys found Tyrion lingering at the balcony atop the _Red Keep._ Too short to see over the barricade, the imp had climbed up to sit on the narrow slip of stone. A perilous perch for a lion to take at the roof of the world. Varys even said so but was treated with rebellious silence. Instead, Tyrion cast a long shadow over _King’s Landing._

“I am waiting,” Tyrion replied, to Varys’ question, “for news of Highgarden.”

“The ravens are housed in the other tower.”

“I am not waiting for _ravens_ ,” scoffed Tyrion, looking South-East. “I am waiting for _smoke_.”

When the smoke came it was a thick, monstrous growth upon the sky. The passing clouds which grazed by held the suggestion of ethereal gods. It was a blasphemous meeting of reality and myth. Magic and death, united by hunger and corrupted with filthy incantations that hung in the air like snow kicked up in the wind. Of course, Tyrion knew that the incantations were simply screams of immolated men. The details of its horror shrank into the dark heart where the smoke was as black as the _Dragonmount_.

Daenerys was setting the whole field ablaze. Flame cutting through soldiers as a blade through flesh. From one bonfire to the next. There was barely a chance to draw breath between the slaughters. He had wondered in his foolish youth how unimaginable feats of cruelty like _The Field of Fire_ had come to pass. Now he was here to witness it afresh. _The exact same battle, repeated on the flats of The Reach._ Four thousand Gardeners and Lannisters – gone in the blink of an eye.

“It happened _again_...” He breathed, quite unable to believe it. “And I _encouraged_ it.”

“More than that,” Varys slipped into view. “The suggestion was yours. The screams are yours. There will be books dedicated to the fires of The Reach baring the Lannister name. Today, I see your father.”

Tyrion fantasised about throwing himself from the _Keep_. “This is _not_ the world I dreamed of.”

“No. This is the world as it always was – a pit of violence. We must find a way to climb out of it.”


	93. A History of Violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for DarrkeThoughts. Bloody hell, I hope this chapter makes sense.

 

 

### THE LANDS OF ALWAYS WINTER - WESTEROS

###  **16,000 BC**

Death pealed away layers from the world. Sheets of time revealed within stretches of darkness, caressed from their slumber by the arrival of the _dawn light_. It started beyond the nameless ridges of ice, jagged and impossible against the Northern sky. A green hue. Aurora, rippling over its entirety like a ghost-banner without a bearer. It snapped silently, mirrored by the milkglass lake whose surface bore a face of solid metal, melted into a perfect sheet by the death throes of an ancient calamity. A star that strayed too close to the realm... An eye for the gods – unblinking. Its edges cried where glaciers died onto the steel, ending their vast lives as mounds of useless snow.

The Amethyst Empress watched her royal clothes turn to rag. Death had paid for a pale mimic of life yet she was not entirely free of her living soul. She remembered what it was to be _nothing_. Remembered the final breath and her blood running cold over the stone floor of _Wyvern Keep_. Remembered the fire die in her flesh and what it was to struggle for breath only to find her lungs limp inside their bone cage. _Remembered the burn of her brother’s blade._ _The hollow sound of g_ _emstones bounc_ _ing_ _across the ground_ _and into the cracks..._

Barefoot, she led the remainder of her devout creatures into the Northern extremity of the uncharted continent. Necromancers. They were all that remained of her royal court and the ship that wrecked upon the white shore months ago. The rest had perished in the cold. Their corpses were dragged across the ice by white bears who feasted then left the rest for the crows to pick at and flock to homes burrowed in the cliffs. The necromancers were half-dead themselves. A mixture of bone and magic that hissed, tugging thick hoods over their faces to keep out the eerie light.

Together they formed a hunting party, tracking the ice demons. After tearing the golden empire apart, they had retreated where no living thing could follow, encasing themselves in the frozen wasteland. Nested in the constant dark, they falsely believed themselves untouchable but _sh_ _e_ was not living and so the Empress pursued, determined to set them to pieces and finish what her brother had begun. To stop night, one had to be bold enough to chase the sun.

A red stain moved through the sky, falling endlessly toward the mountains. The Empress paused to watch it journey over the navy sheet. _A bleeding star_ , they told her. A rarity in the heavens. The last remains of the second moon whose bones had fallen to the ground long ago. It was trapped, like everything else, in an endless cycle – born afresh every eight thousand years.

*~*~*

For a while the mountains collapsed into tides of ruined ice blocks. Marbled, ribbons of ash patterned them like veins. They were ever crashing against each other – growling and rearing up in war that had no purpose. Where the ground was soft, the sea sloshed beneath, flipping bergs the size of mountains with sighs that came from the world itself. The Empress and her death mongers scaled them one by one until a necromancer screeched in agony, lost its footing and found themselves sucked under a crevasse. The crunch of its corpse at the bottom woke a pale blue eye. Blinking, it shifted inside a filthy lair.

The tomb beneath the ice was part of a vast underworld of maze-like lava tubes – the veins of past fires. Some were monsters with mouths gaping large enough to swallow cities. Others were little more than cracks barely big enough for a _Weirwood_ root to feel its way toward the warmth. A few passages stretched below the waters that bridged continents and emerged in forgotten forests on the Eastern shore. There they hung, mouths open to dripping forests and smoking waters.

Rustled from sleep, the ice dragon flexed the horned fan at the base of its skull. Its scales scraped against the stone as it dragged its belly along the ground. It pushed aside the frozen remains of tentacles, thick as a horse’s girth. Bones rattled next to river stones. Feathers with bloodied quills were tossed about in the mess of death, white and black. The skulls of Children lay in their hundreds, shifting as snow. Somewhere, in the depths, water lapped at the tunnels where the _Shivering Sea_ made inroads into the underworld.

*~*~*

After the maelstrom, _The Lands of Always Winter_ calmed into a valley. Either side, ice walls rose hundreds of feet, snaking left and right like a river with no more than ten feet between its pale faces. There were seams of ash trapped in their façade. Line after line, several hands thick, every eight thousand years like the tolling of _Asshai’s_ brass bells. The ash crumbled at her touch and slipped into the wind.

At the end of this unholy passage, the Amethyst Empress found true _North_. The path finished in a crescent pit, carved by another, far larger fallen star. Bedrock, black and furious, peeked out in a morbid embrace of what she called the _Glass Mountains_ for they had no stone to hold them up. Transparent and made entirely of ancient ice, they towered in a semi-circle, cutting the rest of the world from view. The aurora shone through its flanks like giant jellyfish bobbing in the _Jade Sea,_ pulsating with unnatural light. Spikes of ice grew out from the ground in an eerie homage to a forest. The wind whistled around their sharp edges, singing songs of ice.

Finally, nestled in the wretched heart, was a shimmering city basked in demon-light.

It was unlike any construction of man. Built on a mount of black, oily rock risen from the impact crater, there were no faces, grotesques or animal forms of any kind fashioned across its surface. Instead it was bleak with nothing but the simplest of colonnades to hold its levels apart. Even they were sharp-edged, unfinished works of horror. Down one side was an unusual growth of silver that could have been the cousin of coral if it lived a different life. At the centre festered a pair of intertwined trees. Monstrosities, gnarled and indiscernible from one another, they towered over the landscape bleeding red and blue tears in the form of heart-shaped. Their roots of black and white circled the stone in a suffocating spiral that ended on the featureless ice. She had never seen living things take on such immensity. There was nothing to shadow them, not even the sweeping Curtain Figs in the jungle of _Mossovy_ _._ One might imagine these were _gods_. Removed from Time’s attrition. Separate from the rest of the desolate sheets of wandering ice.

Her necromancers dropped to their knees and prayed as one vile, hissing mass of cursed words. Their hoods fell back revealing hollow faces and the glean of bone protruding from sunken flesh. Above the _Ironwood_ and _Weirwood_ canopy stretched a tail of stars – the ceiling of her brother’s church and how disarmingly it displayed its beauty here. Perfection elevated to the shame of the golden cities of the East. She grabbed the half-creatures by their cloaks – screamed an order and threw them forward. They waded into the expanse where daggers of ice created snow traps with powder as deep as their knees built up against the translucent spines. Hostile gusts of wind screamed around them while the city remained unmoved. Dead. The white, cursed things inside had walked over frozen seas to slaughter _Essos_ then retreated to this extremity, thinking themselves safe. They used _Winter_ itself as a battlement.

None of these ‘other’ nameless creatures emerged from their citadel. The Amethyst Empress was left standing on the final expanse in front of the silent city. There were corpses set under the ice with pieces poking through. Skeletal hands reached hopelessly where flesh ended at the wrist leaving bone exposed to the wind. A glint of armour, dulled by salt. Weapons broken and folded into the ice with blades made of sea-glass. She pulled a trident from the white hell. Three-pronged, it had pearls set into its hilt. Sad, lonely orbs that glistened like pieces of the moon. Green weed had been wrapped along its length but the prongs at the top were forged from unusual white milkglass like her brother’s sword.

It was all evidence of a terrible battle had been fought upon the flat. The faces of the dead – those the ice preserved – were sunken with flat noses and slits for ears. Their hair was green like their skin and mottled with yellow spots. Their eyes, gone, left gaping sockets while their necks were adorned by shells and things from the sea. Flaps of skin webbed around their necks and, fish-like in appearance, they wrinkled like aeons of bark.

Staggered, the Empress stared at the vanished empire. These were the killing fields where the _Deep Ones_ made their final stand. They did not vanish from the world by slinking, uncaring, into the sea – stealing women from the islands in the _Shivering Sea_. They were _here_ , slaughtered and laying in pieces beneath a canopy of blind gods. Perhaps the city was theirs too, stolen by corrupted things...

It was here, at the curtain of the world that death and life, dawn and darkness, North and South – all lost their meaning. Blue eyes watched from the city. _Children_ that had strayed too far from the forests and grown into men. They forgot their songs and worshipped the cold, scaled and frozen making patterns out of flesh instead of shell.

The Empress gripped the trident and set her eyes on the city. She would meet with these things and look upon the face of death and tear their filthy souls from their frozen bones.

*~*~*

The necromancers abandoned her.

They flocked to the cursed creatures, entranced by their powerful magic, pale faces and hissing language that could not be uttered by a living tongue as it danced with the wind and cracking ice. The _Whitewalkers,_ as she came to know them, kept her foolish necromancers as pets. In time, their skin turned to ice as they taught the _Whitewalkers_ forbidden spells from _Asshai_ and drank _Shade of the Evening._ Nightmares visited their dreams. They would collapse one by one and writhe about as snakes. She tried to stop the butchery of the sacred words but they locked her in a pit beneath the twisting trees. In the darkness, the Empress climbed over black and white roots covered in sap that spilled over the ground. Instead of ice, she found rock and leaf. The decaying world forged heat, melted the ice and dripped from every surface in an unstructured symphony. There they kept her for eight thousand years, until the last of the necromancers perished and she was forgotten.

Dead. Alone. The Empress lay against the white wood of the _Weirwood_ and let it enfold her. Its roots grew through her skin until her eyes opened and saw the world from the swaying branches of sister trees, scattered over the continent. One lived at the heart of _Asshai_. She looked down from its bowers at the empty plains and scorched mountains throwing fire from their lips. Rivers lit the darkness. Smoke smothered the fields of ghost grass. Her throne lay dismantled and the East, though victorious over the Northern horrors, was now a wasteland inhabited by the darkest of the city’s creatures. Ash rained, thick as snow. The Empress howled at the horror. The _Weirwood_ , bound to her, withered and died in that moment.

She closed her eyes and opened them again. Another _Weirwood,_ young and strong, thriving among a hundred others in the depths of a swamp. Mist rose from the thick water of the _Fever River_. The vision flickered. Time faltered and suddenly the sapling surged into a tree, its roots swelled among the mangrove roots where a dragon, black as death, pawed its way through the mud. Its snout sniffed the wood. Nuzzled the bark. Dipped its head back – opened its throat and sang to the forest. Tears were beyond the Empress – instead crimson leaves tore from the branches and scattered over the beast.

A different tree with a view of the _Whispering Sound_. Barely alive, it clung to the escarpment, enduring salt and storm. There was nothing to see from its eyes except wandering ships and hungry gulls flocking to the surf.

Another, already ancient though the dawn had barely risen. Its heavy arms laid close to the ground, cracked by unnatural girth. Its sparse canopy waited for the ravens to fly in with the night and settle like a cloak. Children watched from their eyes, cawing at the world while the stone walls of a _Keep_ were built behind. Warg Kings knelt in prayer, slicing the necks of forest things which they left to bleed into the hungry wood until even that turned black.

The bitter taste of blood touched her lips. The Empress flinched and the vision shifted. She was lost to time and place. The trees spoke to each other in a language beyond both. The next tree held a cave like hers where rows of entombed men had grown into the walls. Their eyes rolled back, white like the snow. A wolf growled and a raven startled from a dragon corpse. She closed her eyes and looked no more until a chill brushed her cheek.

Cliffs again but these were black, rising from an ice-locked bay. Across the grey water lay a sliver of white and on from that mountains which she recognised, glistening in the sun. This _Weirwood_ flourished, opening its leaves to the months of drizzle that covered the land in carpets of moss. Pines grew thick and tall, swaying in the shallow earth full of boulders and cold streams. _Bear Island_ was a piece of the world, snapped off and set adrift. Tiny, child-like creatures scampered through its forests with black-tipped spears and painted faces. Their chase stopped at the _Weirwood_. One approached, padding silently over the first flecks of snow, melting in the grass. The creature knelt at the base of the tree and withdrew a black blade. Smiling with a row of small, pointed teeth, the child burrowed into the tree’s flesh. It cried tears from freshly carved eyes. The Empress screamed, clutching her eyes. Curses hit the wind, uttered from her lips. The green-fleshed child retreated from the _Weirwood_ , leaving the gnarled wreck to live upon the cliff with only half a face.

The last of the trees was also the oldest. Squat, rotund and stunted it had taken root on a lava flow sheeted with ice. To its North lay a vast forest covered in snow and South, freezing mud for miles with sprouts of weed. Instead of looking from within the tree, she found herself standing before it, casting her gaze over its limbs. They were marred by scars. Axe marks. Grooves left by arrow heads. A stain of blood where something had been held against the trunk and slain in an act of violence. There were more _Weirwoods_ trying to grow along the obsidian ridge. Wherever pools of ice collected, they thrust out of the stone, splitting it with their strong roots. None of them grew above her waist and rustled in the icy wind, shivering in a carpet of blood.

Then the Empress heard unfamiliar whispers. A man draped in wolf fur knelt at the foot of the tree. Dark hair, brown eyes and broad shoulders, larger than the men of the East, stooped in prayer. The first man that she had seen since landing on the frozen shore. Little more than a dream, the Empress followed the man through the eyes of the white trees. He travelled South. Over the flats of cooled lava into a thick forest of pines. Snow became rain. Ice turned to mud. The mountain range on the right rose in towering knives of dark grey with hot mist roaring up their flanks. Smoking, they shivered in the morning light then died away, trailing back into the earth as if they never were. The man waded through a river and fished the edge of a vast, green lake. The forest thickened and the trees filled with the howl of wolves. Ravens became song birds, hopping from branch to branch with bright notes. The Empress felt their feet press lightly on her skin.

At the heart of a valley, the man stopped and looked upon an ugly castle built of silver stone. Round and heavily supported by _Ironwood_ scaffolding, _Winterfell_ barely held back the godswood that brushed against its Eastern walls. Patches of blue leaves, deep like the seas around _Asshai_ , hid among the green. All were overshadowed by the expanding canopy of red leaves – rusted in hue – strangling their way across the forest. Temporary structures were built in fields around the castle, most on the bank of a shallow lake that encircled half the fortress like a moat.

 _They’ve been here for a while_ , the Empress realised, then wondered how long she’d been trapped beneath the ice watching the world turn without a point of reference. Long enough for men to wander across the seas.

It was then that the man turned and looked directly at her. The Empress froze, believing herself free of her prison for a fraction of a moment. Then she heard the crunch of leaf litter behind and realised that the man was nodding at his brother – another enormous creature with a trailing black beard and crown of wood. _A king_ , they called him, _of Winter_.

For years, the Empress’s mind lingered in the godwood, watching from the branches as snow crept over the surrounding mountains and tumbled down over the fledging castle. The frosts thickened until one year the swamp grass vanished and the edges of the lake turned white. These men had wolves as large as horses by their side with thick fur and cruel eyes that seemed to see more than prey upon the ice. A few tilted their enormous heads toward the _Weirwood_ and growled. Other men came out of the forests. Warg kings. River kings. Sand kings. Storm kings. Then came the Children. They all feared the rising tide of snow.

One afternoon the world shook. It shook in _Winterfell_ and in the cavern beneath the frozen city. It shook in every corner of the Western continent. It shook awake things best left to slumber.

### THE LANDS OF ALWAYS WINTER - WESTEROS

###  **8,000 BC**

The Amethyst Empress gasped. Eyes open, she lunged forward – tearing her flesh away from the roots that had taken hold of her body. _Weirwoods_ fed off the living so their hold on the dead was feeble. The cavern quivered around her, shivering underfoot. She wondered if there were giants stirring deep below – creatures that should never wake rolling onto their sides, flexing claws, sniffing the rank air and twitching their limbs. Were they sightless fireworms or something worse… Something made of ice that the East had never found? It was always said that the _oldest_ things are in the Western waters, beyond the eye of the golden city. There, beneath the ocean mist, they whispered to each other.

Dust rained from above. Light splayed through the darkness, streaming through cracks in the ceiling surrounding the _Ironwood’_ _s_ trunk. Unlike its sibling, this tree laid benign with footholds and roughened bark, enough that she could climb toward the splinters of light.

The ice floor of the palace was shattered in several places. She pounded on its underside, beating her fist against the largest crack until pieces collapsed inwards, raining down into the pit. The Empress turned her head as large chunks followed – sailing through the abyss before destroying themselves on the ground. A hole. She reached through, hands curling around the sharp edge. _Free_ , she hauled her body out of the pit and emerged on what remained of the fragile palace floor. It groaned ominously at her weight, threatening to shatter as she crept forward but the weight of its magic held the surface together. The vast chamber of the frigid palace was made of blue ice that towered like one of the temples in _Asshai,_ the apex of its ceiling suffocated of light. Around the walls, weak fire burned inside milkglass holds that clutched the blue flames in twisted claws. She stumbled and the floor cracked again. The walls were not solely construct of ice. There were branches from both trees knit within, holding the structure together that played as phantom shadows and ghosts of veins.

Except for her, the city was abandoned...

The Empress moved to the doors which were each twelve feet tall – one side black, the other white. She opened them with a light press of her palm. They shifted weightless on silver hinges. Outside, a watery sun hung low, skimming the horizon as if considering vanishing entirely below its quivering lip. It lived briefly in a shallow arc. The _Glass Mountains_ had weathered away, sinking while fresh glaciers smothered what remained. Chasms of time had passed and yet the trident that she’d brandished against the ice creatures was where she’d left it, abandoned on the ground beside the door. These things, whatever they were, barely lived in their own city.

She took the weapon and stepped into the snow. There was a cloud of Northern mist shifting through the valley – thick and desperate. It covered the world like a cloak. The _Others_. It had to be them, headed South toward the people she’d seen in her vision.

*~*~*

Months died before the Empress caught up to the demons. They were slowed by a collapsing glacier. Filthy and grey, it drowned many hundreds of the dead things the _Whitewalkers_ had resurrected with magic taught by the necromancers.

The Empress watched the resurrected move as a single slave army, one without a will or thought of its own. These abominations had blue eyes – or no eyes at all, slime for flesh and exposed bone with sinew hanging like loose threads. Most were lifted from the field of war outside the sleeping city. Their fish-like heads and webbed hands were ill-suited to the task of violence and quickly found themselves replaced by wild looking men that lived in the _Frost Fangs._ Large, terrifying brutes they already wore armour made from the remains of their enemies. The _Whitewalkers_ even turned their savaged horses which they mounted. Others took spiders and white bears.

She watched them face off against a village pitched on a narrow strip of rock backed by a cliff. It laid on the water like a discarded obsidian blade while the river smoked, heated from beneath as it twisted in front of the village in a sapphire serpent.

The _Whitewalkers_ sent their dead things in first, wading through the water and out onto the other side. They were immediately struck to pieces by axe-wielding men – their skulls crushed but even the pieces tried to fight on. Fingers grasping at arrow heads. Leg bones rolling over the black rocks... Only fire broke the spells placed upon their corpses. Screams filled the air, hollow and rattling in their dead throats.

When the _Whitewalkers_ tired of watching the slaughter, they headed to the bank of the _Milkwater River_. It froze beneath their feet, forming a bridge of ice which they crossed in pairs. They held seven foot – double ended spears made of ice which shattered the brittle steel weapons upon the softest touch. _All_ died and were raised again. The army continued. The Empress followed.

So it was, again and again. A song of massacre and resurrection.

*~*~*

The army of the dead marched into a sprawling forest with roots deep in the warmth of the world. Fresh snowfalls hung on the pines. Limbs, too heavy, snapped and sent showers of white over the walking corpses. Here _Weirwood_ grew wild. Tiny and narrow, they tangled in the bigger trees like vines strangling their way toward the light or growing as parasites from forked pine limb and sending down their roots in gnarled fingers. Ravens with many faces hopped from limb to limb, tilting their heads curiously screaming at one another. One had an extra eye set in the centre of its head. All three blinked. The Empress kept to the shadows, trailing the army. The occasional wolf sniffed at her but they soon whimpered at her unusual scent and scampered away.

There were other faces in the forest. The small, child-like creatures from her dreams in the cavern haunted it in packs. They kept their distance from the _Whitewalkers_ but were unsurprised by their presence. Eventually one was found impaled on a man’s hunting trap – a roughly cut spike through its muscled thigh. It struggled in the frost-covered leaves, screaming in high pitched, wretched calls. Its blood stained the snow beneath as it looked on in confusion at the walking corpses whose eyes glowed in the shadows of the forest. This was _not_ their magic. Three _Whitewalkers_ approached. The ground froze wherever they stood. Mist settled, pressing its cold onto the world. The Empress hid herself in a thicket to watch along with the curious birds. The child of the forest was pulled, alive, limb from limb – socket by socket and hung through the trees in patterns that dripped blood into the snow. The head, with its vacant eyes was left in the centre of the display. A solitary crow landed in its hair, leaned down and picked at the meat on its face. That night all the birds left their perches and flew South to spread whispers of the coming Winter. Their screams scattered until even the white ravens joined the fray of feathers in the sky.

Everything was different after the butchering. Fires were lit inside the forest by the Children. Their flames rose high, fuelled by oil-rich trees that exploded in plumes of orange light. Sparks followed, dancing as storms on the evening sky. Where they fell to earth, more fires caught and soon the entire forest ahead thickened with smoke. The heat pressed against the dead army, holding them back. Their creatures, risen from the grave, perished if they strayed to close and collapsed in useless piles of bone.

However fierce the fires burned, they could not climb the flanks of the _Frost Fangs_ and so the army veered right and crawled onto the exposed stone. They passed onto the Western side of the continent where there were no forests or trees of any kind. Ice, simple and clean, spread all the way to the _Frozen Shore_ and beyond that, a grey bay of water dotted with bergs. Where the ice ended, the black rocks began. Worn smooth, they were used by seals to bask in the failing light. The stench and sound of the sea mixed with that of rattling bone and swords dragged along the rock.

Across the bay sat an island. Wet, small and cursed with tall, unstable cliffs it offered precious little to the fishermen that dragged nets through the mess of waves. Sea fog clustered around its flanks, covering all but the highest jagged mountain from view. _Bear Island_ with its smoking peak and hard people.

The Empress stood in the water. Pieces of seaweed gathered at her ankles as the tide came in and out. Fierce smoke leaked from the mountains on their left but their swollen bellies of fire were not enough to stop the procession of cold. The Amethyst Empress could do nothing as a layer of ice formed on the surface of the bay. _They bring the Winter_ , she thought, with their magic. Without words, the _Whitewalkers_ summoned an ancient god and it was more than happy to feed their will. A god without a name. What kind of malice, she wondered, was happy to let the world die?

In one month the _Bay of Ice_ froze solid, dotted with monstrous chunks of ice and waves captured mid-break. All two thousand creatures and their undead walked across the surface, overwhelming the tiny island. White bears were slaughtered and re-born. The fishermen, almost all killed by the cold inside their homes, were pulled from dateless-sleep to march.

The _Whitewalkers_ lined the beach and eyed a nearby cove opposite, across the water where the sea ended in uneven sandstone cliffs. She watched as their faces blushed in the afternoon light.

*~*~*

The slaughter began in earnest upon these Southern shores. It started with villages, dotted along the water who took up sword against the creatures only to be brushed aside and fed upon by starved dogs. They were left to rot for days, sometimes weeks before the _Whitewalkers_ raised them again. These terrifying additions, with faces missing and blood-stained clothes, haunted the nightmares of any man quick enough to run.

*~*~*

On the other side of the _Wolfswood_ , the Empress found the small stone castle and its _godswood_ from her vision. An army was growing in its belly, fed by the surrounding villages that rushed to its walls for safety against the coming wall of white cloud. The king with the wooden crown stalked along the narrow walls, surveying the clutter of camps and freezing mud that formed under the feet of horses. She hid herself in the thickest part of the _godswood_. Aware of her alarming visage, she stole a cloak and covered the remains of her silver rags.

The king never came. He kept to his battlements without a moment spared for the gods. It was his brother that eventually picked his way through the forest and knelt in front of the _Weirwood –_ sword across his lap. A warm pool of water steamed nearby where it bubbled from the depths of the world. She’d expected him to wail hopeless platitudes but the man simply closed his eyes and pressed his hand to the white bark. The face beneath his hand was fresh.

The Stark brother used the tree as an eye to the world. He communed with it, seeing as she did. Eyes rolled back like a pair of moons, his lips rambled unintelligible horrors. While he was distracted, the Empress inched out of the shadows, sinking into the thick snow with bare feet. She lingered beside the _Weirwood’s_ trunk. In this frame of time, seeing him with her own eyes, she noticed that he was young. Twenty – no more but weathered by the brutal landscape. His beard was as thick as the wolf fur draped across his shoulders. There were no adornments of any kind around his neck or pierced through his flesh except for a thick leather belt with a heavyset buckle. The heart of his eyes were deep brown and mottled with flecks of amber. It was only while staring into their fiery depths that she realised he had slipped from his vision and spotted her hiding under the _Weirwood’s_ bowed limb.

*~*~*

Brandon Stark came to the forest every night once the torches had been lit. He used one to fight his way through the darkness. At the entrance to the freshly dug crypts, he met the silver woman. Ghost-like, she waited for him, shrouded by mist. Her flesh took on the light of the moon. Her eyes shone violet and though she spoke often he could not understand the meaning of her foreign words. They hissed, like ice or the rustle of leaves. It was the Empress who learned the Stark’s ways and eventually the beginnings of their primitive language. Months passed as she carved runes into the crypt walls. Then Winter fell. Ice sheets slid down from the mountains and wrapped around the castle. The _godswood_ vanished until only the heated pool remained at the bottom of an ice well, churning steam from its solitary grey eye. Death walked over the mountains and _The Wars_ began. _Killings_ , she thought, as these people had no armies to compare to those that lined the hills of _Asshai_. These people fought among the cover of the forests and killed what they could, whenever they could. The Empress set fire to their bodies with a few whispered words so that the dead could never rise to hold a sword again. The men did the same, building great pyres in the night. They huddled under the glow with the ash of their brothers falling onto their faces. Even this, they blessed. _Death_ was a door which they past beyond, never to open. It was something to worship. An end to their misery...

From the sands in the South came a silver-skinned warrior with white hair, purple eyes, a red fox-fur cloak and fine cut features exactly like hers. Within him flowed the blood of the Dawn kings. A remnant of her fallen empire. This stranger wielded her brother’s sword but her blood and its sickly black stone hilt were both missing and so too the malice it fed.

They called this man, _The Sword of the Morning_. When he held the white blade aloft, men followed without question or fear. The King of Winter granted him leave to take a ranging party North where he vanished for long weeks as the snows fell harder and the crops failed in the ice-locked ground. The starving died in their beds and rose, soulless to wander the white drifts. Many of these walking corpses fell into the river and slid beneath the water. Others lined the _Grey Cliffs_ and stared into nowhere. Mothers threw their children, alive and screaming into the pyres – then followed rather than risk waking as one of them.

The nights dragged their feet. The Empress sat by one of the great pyres and told the Stark brother stories of the Winters that had come before in a land far away. _It was a cycle,_ she said, _one that crept toward an end._ Every time the ice creatures came they took another piece of civilisation from the world. It was _her fault_ they had an army of dead things to do their bidding. She had visited this fresh hell upon these people and begged the Stark brother to let her help. He could not bear the pale woman’s tearful supplication so he took her down into the crypts that he’d commissioned. The Empress walked their narrow halls. They were empty and cavernous save for a few lonely statues that held watch over the darkness.

When she asked who the statues belonged to, Bran knelt in front of them and laid a single sprig of _Weirwood_ on the ground. “My mother,” he replied, with heavy eyes, “and my two sons.”

The Empress rested her cold hand upon his shoulder. He leaned his head toward her flesh. There they stayed for a moment, in the depths of the _Winterfell_ crypts.

Eventually the Empress left Bran’s side. She roamed the hallways, placing old spells upon _Winterfell_ , infusing its grey rock with star-magic. Forbidden, it turned the stone vaults into a sickly black with oil sweating from their surface. Their poisoned veneer pushed the ice back, melting whatever it touched. Moss sprung into life, feasting as grass after the fire.

The Stark King, with his wooden crown, saw this and thought her to be one of the demons. For weeks he watched the Empress pray to the stars and sleep outside in the _godswood_. One morning he took her by the neck and held her against a wall – her toes grazing the snow as she struggled. The King ripped open her gown and revealed the knife wound in her stomach.

‘ _Dead!’_ The King pressed his hand into the black flesh. _‘You are one of Them! They are_ your _creatures!’_

Bran grabbed the King by his furs and pulled him off the Empress. They fell to the floor as a brawling pair, rolling over and over with fists smashing against skin. Bran fought his brother until they were separated by guards that came flooding into the crypts. Laying a hand on the King was death but as brothers they had been fond of each other, all through life, so the King banished them both from the walls of _Winterfell_.

They headed North, in search of the Southerner and his ranging party who had been missing for more than a month.

They sat upon the snow with a pack of men loyal to Bran. Pitched tents rippled in the howl of the wind while their fires struggled to raise enough heat to cook a deer. The immensity of the North overwhelmed them. They were barely more than river stones, caught in the ebb of a current.

The Empress crouched opposite her Stark, watching the way he whispered loving words to his steel blade. A great big thing, it had darkness in its steel. Its handle was made for an even larger hand than his and had suffered many brutal blows during its time. The hilt, carved into a poor likeness of a wolf, was nothing to the ornate pummels from her city. Even the lowliest of her guards were more elegantly dressed than these foreign kings. Poverty did not diminish their ferocity. If anything, it cut away everything except the truth. What need did a man have of jewels when the currency of his land was blood? He has a sword sheathed at his waist and scars to mark his conquests.

“Are they dead?” Bran asked, eyes toward the North. “You see things you should not. Have you seen their fate?”

The Empress did not know.

*~*~*

Mountains lounged to their left creating enormous wind traps that had begun to fill with snow. Glaciers curled through their valleys, fresh and white, snapping into pieces like twigs leaving a constant growl upon the air. Far off to the right lay another range, this one short, confined to an island but impossibly high and grey – like steel. Two of its peaks made trails of white steam which joined the clouds in their endless passage South. The winds all came from the freezing North and the sky offered nothing but snow except on rare days like this where the realms of these strange, early men saw the heavens as such a sharp and perfect blue one might think it was a second sea and the gods – all the same.

They’d made their camp in a wasteland. Sulphur left a yellow stain on the edge of a small river that fanned out in innumerable tributaries, like a jungle canopy laid flat. Its source was a pool of bubbling water and mud where the ground was too hot to approach. Passing snowfalls melted into steam before they touched the ground. Their cluster of tents lay at the fringes – close enough to enjoy the warmth.

All eyes looked North, scouring the ice beyond for _something_ , any flicker of life.

“ _I see him, out there in the snow drifts...”_ The Amethyst Empress whispered, as she lay on the black ground. She could neither feel the warmth beneath or the cold wind across her face. “He walks alone. Searches the forests for Children but all he finds are sapphire eyes and black feathers.”

Bran tossed another slab of wood into the pitiful fire they’d built in the hollow of the rock. The flames, too weak to dance, wove around the fresh offering and pealed away its bark creating large flakes of white-tipped ash. “Men should build a wall here,” he breathed. “Ground is flat. The seas come in on both sides. I can see it, if I close my eyes. A great big wall of ice.”

“And who could build such a thing?” She whispered back. Layered in local cloth, she looked nearly alive – save for her eyes. There had always been an ungodly light inside them.

“I could.” Bran set a cup of melt-water by her side which he knew she would not drink. “That is what I do – I build things,” he explained. “Before the war I travelled South, all the way to the Whispering Sound while my brother raised wolves. I see things in my dreams. Imagined buildings of immensity and beauty. So I visited the blackened ruins of an ancient structure with a view of the Sunset Sea and commissioned a light house to rise from the corpse of the old building. When it is finished, it’ll be the first thing to see the rising sun and the last to watch it set.”

“Why build such a thing?”

“Why do _anything_?” Bran countered. “Before my time is spent, I wish to leave a mark upon the realm. One that isn’t shaded red. Something that belongs to me and not my brother. His legacy is our name – may his children carry it for all of time for mine are dead.” There was no lingering anger. Bran spoke of his King with warmth. “I like to imagine the lighthouse growing old in the world, its limestone cracking – seagulls making roosts of the windows. Let the moss creep and the rain tear pieces of the mortar out of place. I’ll still be able to see the light from its fire all the way from here.” He grinned. Perhaps that was a fantasy. “If I build this wall it will not be a thing of beauty. No. It will exist as _majesty_. An indefinable thing that men will crawl to in years a thousand past and ask if man could make such a thing or if the gods themselves tore it from the ground.”

The Empress looked through a gap in the tent to the endless expanse of nothing where this wall might stand. “And _how_ will you build it? The mountains are too far to mine. You’ll never drag the stone across the ice.”

“Like any other thing.” Bran replied. “From one stone until the last.” Then, a smirk barely visible under his thick beard. “Except I shall use ice instead of stone. Your eyes do not believe me.”

“I believe your will.” She assured him. “And I believe your dreams are real. I have dreams myself but they brim with horror, not hope.” This Stark had the same veracity of mind as her brother. A thought to them was little more than a dare upon the gods.

*~*~*

In the morning, the winds had died away and the Empress walked across the ice until she came to the exposed flats of black rock, swept clean. Though she could not feel anything, she knew they must be warm to the touch. They looked like slag, bled out from the side of a fire mountain. She searched the landscape for an offending peak but found none close enough to blame. This place was nothing to the seas of fire she had seen in the Southernmost edges of the world where they lapped against each other as vast oceans.

Bran’s encampments were being consumed by the storms which gathered strength every night and blew afresh. Ice cut like glass. Support beams snapped and had to be lashed together. Still, no sign of the lost hero and his party. There was nothing in their appearance that gave the Empress _hope_. How could such creatures, she asked, stand against the terror of death? Were their souls resolute to the value of a hundred _Asshai’i_? If this builder’s words were true, she could not see her way to their end.

The gaps of blue in the clouds vanished and were replaced by an eternal bank of grey. That was the last of the sun. It formed a roof over the world that dulled the sunlight during day and hid the moon and stars by night. The temperature dropped. Grey snow fell. Bran took a fistful of it in hand. _‘Ash...’_ he whispered. Ash as far as they eye could see. It poisoned their water and killed off the last of their beasts whose final days were spent on their sides, moaning and bloated.

The camp survived on fish plucked from holes in ice where a great lake still had warm waters. The Empress told the men stories of the Eastern realm and the terrible violence that had been visited on them by the gods – of mountains that exploded with fire and the dragons that made their nests inside the heat. There were dragons in the North, the men had told her in reply. White ones that marauded over the _Shivering Sea_ and breathed ice and death upon the fisher folk.

Sat around the fire during one of the long nights, the Empress whispered, “We live in a realm of ignorance, moored with the dark seas lapping to infinity on all sides. It was never meant that we should cut ourselves loose and voyage so far into the abyss of gods.”

“Why did you teach these ice demons to raise the dead?” Bran asked, as darkness picked at their fire.

“I did not teach them,” the Empress replied, “but I brought those who did. The necromancers dreamed of conquering death. It is what we encouraged in our old city where fear of sinking into the final waters drove us to pursue eternity. The Whitewalkers breathed that nightmare. In their foolish quest for validation, the necromancers hastened death upon the whole world – the very opposite of their dream. Death begets death, Bran Stark, and so too must I die when this war is done. It is not natural for us to linger past our time.”

“The Children do...” Bran replied. “They live in the forests and sleep away the ages with the giants. The old songs say that they were the first to lay eyes upon the frozen ones.” He hesitated, as the Empress became distracted watching a crow hop about on the bloodied snow where one of the horses had died. It pecked at the ice, chipping away bits of pink snow. “Why do you watch the ravens?”

For a long time the Empress did not reply. She waited for the bird to feast and fly off into the darkness.

“A very long time ago there was an Emperor in our land – they called him the _Pearl Emperor_ on account of a pile of chests he found washed up on a beach at the edge of the Shivering Sea – frosted over and thick with barnacles. They were filthy things with rotted iron holds, leather made from Seal and inscriptions no one could decipher. Inside were pearls – black and white – like sand.”

“A fortune...” Whispered Bran.

“A fortune’s fortune…” She agreed. “So the old songs go, war forced his rule into the South and our great city was rebuilt in the depths of the jungle where rock monoliths rose hundreds of feet and bone trees wrapped root nets around their rocky throats. There were things in that jungle that the Emperor was not prepared for. People that had lived among the trees with their own gods. Monsters of god that preyed upon the Emperor’s army. We learned in those first, fearsome decades, that when you take our bows, our spears, our swords and our fire – we slip down the pegs of life’s ladder. We become lowly mice. Fodder and meat – mauled and chewed. Hunted in the darkness and dragged from our unstable homes with jaws sinking into our arms. That memory… We know what it feels like to linger on the line where the sun sets. We sing songs to blind us but as the edge approaches a madness overtakes – the kind of fear heard animals get when they see the butcher’s knife and rear at the glint.”

“And the crows?”

“The reason for the war was written on the palace walls. It was kept secret except from those with the burden of reign. Whenever a new city went up, those walls were copied. The truth was a heavy burden but the Pearl Emperor was the first called upon to test the old words. You must understand, Stark, our Emperors are _gods_ made flesh. We cannot die in the eyes of man and so we sleep or leave or vanish into the winds...”

“But you _do_ die...” He whispered, looking upon her pale face.

“Our first, ancient Emperor did not return to his chariot in the stars. They never called him, _The Lion of Night_ , that came after he and his queen discovered death.” When she closed her eyes, the Empress could see those distant skies aflame. “The first falling star landed over the curve of our Northern horizon. It woke these ice creatures from their lairs beneath the snow. The sky was not done. Fire rained in tails of red and green while a battle mounted. Before the Emperor and Empress left to join the front lines they told their son and heir what was coming from beyond the night.”

“The Pearl Emperor...”

She nodded. “He knew _exactly_ what he was doing when he headed South and built fortifications on the Eastern edge of the empire. He narrowed the assault to a single front in the North and returned, thousands of years later, to meet the ice demons in a calamity of violence and magic. He died right there, washed upon upon the same beach where he found the pearl chests with blocks of ice and ash falling like snow.” She paused. There was ash tumbling around them now. “ _‘Winter is coming for us again,’_ he pulled his son down by his armour. After that we worshipped the stars, the sun, fire and all the things that darkness hates but we never forgot the old Emperor’s words. _Winter is coming. Winter is coming…_ And it did. On the first day of my reign, the snows began and I knew _They_ had returned.”

“...but the birds…?” Stark asked again. It was as if she would not say.

Indeed the Empress fixed her eyes on the fire. “When we were small, we were told that the ravens – crows – whatever you wish to call them, contained the spirits of forest Children. That is how they escape death. They simply shift from one form to the next and live, with wings, upon the perches of the world and watch the living die.”

They did not speak for some time afterwards. Bran Stark lost himself in her words. His people originally came from the warm waters of the _Sunset Sea_. As far as he knew, they were still there living in cities made of stone. He could not help but wonder if those cities had been old before they came – if they were relics of the world this Empress spoke of.

Then the wolves began to howl. They were chained to the ice outside the camp, keeping watch. They launched themselves into the air – snapping at the figure approaching from the North.

It was the Dayne. He fell to his knees when he saw the fires burning on the ice and wept.

*~*~*

The Children of the Forest had given the Dayne an old war horn. Lacquered black with silver trims, he told Bran that when the Children came over the ice flats they were to blow the horn as hard as they could. In the meantime they were to gather their number, amass on the ice and prepare for war.

Bran’s party took the Dayne back to _Winterfell_ . The banishment was forgotten and, in the depths of the Winter that had set in over _Westeros_ , the armies of man gathered strength. They came from all corners, armed with the unusual black glass the Children had told them to mine from the Eastern caves.

When the confrontation finally came there were no Children to be found. The living and dead came at each other as a pair of waves. The slaughter writhed on the ice fields, as close to the truth North as the men dared to venture. Bran and the King fought beside their men while the Dayne stood on the crest of an unusual stone fist with a view of the battle and waited. When he finally saw the Children moving as one mass beneath the canopy of a nearby forest, he took the horn, held it to his lips and blew.

The horn let out a high pitched cry – shrieking in agony. The men on the fields beneath dropped, covering their ears as they howled like wounded dogs. The Dayne collapsed and coughed up blood from his shattered lungs. He crawled through the snow, trying to reach the edge of the rise so that he could see the battle but his body started to convulse. First it was only his limbs but then the ground itself moved. Everyone felt it – even the dead. Ice cracked. Trees shook their canopies free. All eyes shifted to the North as an unholy screech split the air. It was followed by the flap of wings and a moonlight shadow formed when the ice dragon’s wings pushed the clouds aside.

The Empress withdrew her trident from a corpse and stumbled backwards.

Rolled back into its skull, the ice dragon’s eyes were white – unseeing. In shadow of the forest, one of the Children lay against a _Weirwood_.

*~*~*

“It won’t last, will it – this peace?” said Bran Stark, standing on the scaffolds of a new construction. The beginning of a castle fort sprawled out, while pillars of ice were breathed into life by the ice dragon enslaved to a Child.

The Empress walked along the low rise of ice. In the centre of the wall, where the fortress and ice became one, sat the giant _Weirwood_ where the Child still lay. The hungry roots had already grown around its green-ish limbs like shackles. Its injuries were beyond repair – its fate to live within the dragon and keep its jaws from the neck of men. The North had built a pyre for the Dayne – the biggest the world had ever seen. When it was lit they could have sworn the sun were rising on the wrong side of the world.

“No...” The Empress replied. “Your wall will not stop them.”

*~*~*

The King of Winter commissioned thirteen castles from his brother Bran, to guard the length of the great ice wall. Each one was given a Lord Commander to lead a team of guardians. The last, grandest and most horrifying of these was the enormous _Nightfort_ built over the entwined corpses of the Child and his white tree. It was Bran himself who lifted the last stone in place, sealing the Child from the living. On the reverse side of the tree, he had the Empress carve a giant face into the _Weirwood_. Her blade cut so deep they thought the sap would never stop running.

While the ice grew higher, the Lord Commander and his white witch from the East conspired in their castle ways to keep the Winter from returning to the realm.

Not all men chose to live South of _The Wall_ . Those that broke away called themselves _Freefolk_ and crowned their own King. Joramun and the Stark King kept trade through the gaping door built into the _Nightfort_ through which only the living could pass under the watchful eye of Bran and the Empress.

The Empress spent her days communing with the _Weirwood_ and the C hild in its clutches. Together they dreamed of things deep below the waters. The C hild taught her songs and it was there, as the C hild was strangled to its last breath by the _Weirwood,_ that she saw the moment of the ice creatures’ creation and how they may be undone.

And there began, in the sealed rooms of the _Nightfort_ , unholy magic. The Empress embraced the ancient ways of sacrifice and unforgivable violence against the living to spread protective spells along the wall of ice. She fashioned them into the white roots and breathed them into the blue petals of a rambling Winter rose. It was only the beginning. The final sacrifice was one that only Bran could make.

Bran locked his men out of the fort, boarded up the windows and emptied the room of everything except a single hungry crow.

“These dreams of yours,” Bran asked, as she lashed him to a stone table, “do they have joyful ends?” A dagger of black glass lay to Bran’s side, waiting.

The crow panicked in its cage, sensing the rising tide of fear.

“When the sun rises in the West,” the Empress whispered, tying his ropes tighter. “When the mountains blow into the sea and wash about upon the shore. When the stars touch the sun our prayers will be heard by the slumbering gods.” Her brittle, pale lips smiled.

“Do it, then...” Bran breathed, as her bony fingers undid the fastenings on his shirt. Beneath his skin was nearly as pale as hers. He was older now. There was more grey in his beard than brown and even his eyes had dulled with the years.

“Close your eyes,” the Empress whispered, taking hold of the obsidian knife, “and imagine yourself with wings...”

*~*~*

The guards of the _Nightfort_ had been pushing back soldiers sent by the King of Winter for months. Even Joramun beat upon the great door demanding passage South. At first they’d resisted but the hellish screams coming from the sealed room terrified the men. They remembered the horrors of war and feared that the rumours were true – that their Lord Commander had given himself over to the ways of ice and allowed the witch to twist his heart. They spun untruths to the castles up and down _The Wall_.

When the King of Winter left _Winterfell_ and rode out to the _Nightfort_ to see for himself if the hideous rumours were true, he found pieces of his army slain and even more crows sitting on the scaffolds of the fledging castle. Several other Lord Commanders stormed across the area, keeping a shaky peace but even they were wavering.

In the end it was the King of Winter himself that forced the door of the _Nightfort Keep_ in. There he found his brother – cold as death with skin like the moon and shards of black glass protruding from his chest. His heart sat in an empty bird cage. Bloody runes were tattooed over his torso. There were bowls of _Weirwood_ sap, ink and the corpse of a child from the forest.

The white witch dropped her blood-tipped quill to plead with the King but he’d have none of her poisoned words and ordered her bound and gagged. As she was dragged from the room, a raven took fright and flew at the men, pecking and clawing.

The King of Winter approached his brother’s corpse. He stood over him, a torch in one hand and sword in the other. The witch had turned him into an ungodly amalgamation. It was as if there was ice growing were his veins should be. His flesh hardened into bone – _no_ – bark. His face looked like one of the screaming images in the forest . He slipped the tip of his sword under the ropes and cut the body free so that his men could come and take it back to the vaults of _Winterfell_.

As the men reached down, Bran’s eyes snapped open – blue and alive with ice.

*~*~*

The King could not kill his brother. Against the wishes of the Lord Commanders and his own terrified men, he banished Bran beyond _The Wall_ , into the furthest reaches of the snow. To ensure that his brother kept his promise to stay in the wastelands, the King kept the white witch as a prisoner, entombing her in the crypts where she could slumber in the darkness – alive.

Bran stepped through the _Black Gate_ one last time and wandered into oblivion. It was only later, when he found the ice creatures in their hellish nest, that he realised that the Empress had left him a gift.

Only ghosts can guard the dead.

*~*~*

Joramun hiked up the stone rise and over soft piles of snow until he found a few stray rocks. He dug beside them, burrowing deep. In this pit his placed a bundle of tools and the ominous horn the that the poor Dayne had blown. Only a fool would seek to wake an ice dragon unless they had the means to enter its mind. Men blew the horn so that Children could enter the beast’s mind. A pact that neither could break and one they should never make again.


	94. Seacaves and Stone Graves

 

 

###  **CASTLE BLACK** **–** **THE WALL**

 

The Lord Commander's raven perched upon the ice-locked window sill. Its claws dug in, etching wounds in the crystal surface. Slowly, its old head tilted and gave its other eye a view of the approaching storm. The weather crept upon the castle in a single bank of swollen fog brewing deep in the North-West. Despite the cold, there had been weeks where the clouds rolled off into oblivion and left strips of perfect blue, lulling the _Watchmen_ into a falsity of peace that held as much truth as a king's joy. The sun rose as it always had and the moon followed. _More moon than sun,_ of late. The days were shorter and the shadow cast by _The Wall_ reached further into the South. When the storm finally hit Castle Black, that would be the last of the blue sky.  


T horne meandered near the window  which he had forced open. It was all he could do to blow away the stench of madness  permeating the castle. A good stiff breeze did a world of g ood. “What do you see, my feathered demon?”  He asked, but the crow had no reply  except to lean into the light.

“Raven, Lord Commander-” a brother stumbled through the door, momentarily startled by the freezing room. Everything else in _Castle Black_ had been shut up against the Winter  except for Thorne who stared it down. _Old Fucking Bastard_ , then men called him. Good. They needed a few of those where things were headed. “From Brother Edd at the Nightfort.”

“ Bugger’s still alive, then?” Thorne reached for the message. His attempt at levity fell flat after he’d read the untidy words. “Lord  Howland Reed is dead. Taken by wolves.  They found pieces of him in the snow. Fuck, what a waste.  Were there any other birds?”

“No, my Lord. No birds at all. There was another wagon o’ that black glass from the dragon girl.  It’s in the courtyard. ”

“You best call her, ‘Queen’ now.” Thorne warned. “Take half and send the rest on to the _Nightfort_ and boy – make sure a raven makes it to Winterfell. The Lady Stark will want to know of our troubles.”

A fter the brother had left, Thorne strode over to his old raven and dropped a few crumbs of bread at its feet. “Awfully quiet, you are...” He accused the creature. Normally it was at his sleeve for a scrap day and bloody night. Now all it wanted to do was stare at the snow. “ Don’t spend too long in the cold.”

###  **BLACKWATER BAY** **–** **WESTEROS**

It was a rough sort of outcrop, protruding from the shore in an unstable curve of sharp, mutilated rock thrown over the water and caught by the sand. There was nothing to compare, either side – only marsh behind and a narrow strip of muddied slush running along its mouth at high tide. Vicious cracks split its face, most of which housed rotund gulls, full on dead flesh. They snuggled in pairs, heads laid on each other’s feathered backs. At the base of the cliff was a poorly fitted wooden door made of salvaged driftwood and scraps of leather. Candlelight crept around the edges while shells strung together with twine bumped in the wind.

Arya hung back, retreating to the seam where grass harassed the sand with its razor-stalks. She crouched low. In front, the water lulled in the bay like ink trapped in a maester’s well. Shallow waves cut the surface in parallel lines that ebbed and curved wherever the beach meandered. At one end lay _King’s Landing_ , lit in the darkness by the roaring fire contained inside the _Dragonpit_. Slightly North, across the water sat the ominous shadow of _Dragonstone_. Its stillness frightened her. The silver slips of cloud painted near its summit barely moved despite the onshore wind. It was as if it were a thing removed from time. An island with memories of the wars that came before and the dragons who played in the sky.

Crabs poked their bodies – legs first – out of a hundred holes then ran across the wet sand, honing in on scattered remains. Their hungry tugging made the bits appear to move with a life of their own.

She startled as a pair of winged creatures lifted out of the water and clawed into the star-filled sky. _Dragons_. Arya ducked closer to the ground, praying that the starlight was not enough to pick her from the sashaying grass. They were wild, like her direwolf, feasting and killing without remorse. She admired their vast, leathery skeletons while her dreams were soaked with blood from _Nymeria’s_ kills. Even now she could taste it on her lips.

_The king is in here,_ Arya reminded herself, rising off her haunches  to creep along the sand. She darted like a  _Braavosi_ dust mouse, from shadow to shadow until she reached the  door in the cliff. The rock was covered in thick layers of mollusc s – long dead. Their white, hollow shells trapped tiny pools of water which dripped down like streams of tears.

*~*~*

For the second time that evening, there was a knock at the crabbers’ door. This one softer than the first. Shy. Certainly not another fisherman or trader from _Duskendale_. Tommen, Tycho and the married inhabitants of the cave sat with in the halos of tortured oil lamps. It was a desperately poor room but the solid walls made from bare rock with assortments of dangling shells rendered it with the most remarkable aura of safety. There was no storm that could touch them inside its black embrace. The gods could rage all they liked in _Blackwater Bay_ and kings could war to their hearts’ content but they were confined to a _hush_ on the other side of the door.

“Expecting friends?” The middle-aged wife asked Tommen. Her hair was plaited in dozens of separate pieces, each ending in a coloured beads. Her clothes were loose, sewn from patches of cloth and seal-skin where the elbows of her sleeves needed re-enforcing. The husband was entirely bald and smelled strongly of the sea. He was the one that pried himself from his patch of sand. He took an iron poker with him and brandished it at his side.

“Oh aye we ‘ave all sorts tonight an’ all...” He remarked, seeing the small girl. She was as filthy as Tommen except she carried her own slender sword with a pretty sort of pummel. Her eyes were endlessly brown, like pine bark. “Sure you ain’ know ‘im?”

Arya pretended to be a survivor of the  _King’s Landing_ massacre – a  trader’s daughter from  _Braavos_ who died upon the waves along with his boat. She looked over the crabber’s shoulder, snatching a peek at the Lannister bastard king.

Tommen was not what she had dreamed. Her fantasies painted Tommen as a butcher – a slightly younger Jeoffrey  suckled on cruelty. Instead she found a boy with an old grey cat draped over his lap and the banker from  _Braavos_ drinking broth  on a lump of rock to his right .  The king even turned the edges of his lips into a weak smile,  hearing the tail of a joke.

“Do yer speak?” The crabber prompted, when the girl remained frozen by his earlier guests. “Oh – I see, yer probably recognise ‘im, do yer? Being from the Capital an’ all I guess it’s hard not to. I admit – he got the look all right. Lannister... All that blonde hair. Told ‘im already he need ter shave it off if he wants to wander about without being bothered by folk.”

“They will always know that he is the king, no matter what wig you put on him.” Arya finally replied, her voice steady and gaze fixed on the Lannister boy. He was nearly the same age as her and yet the years had laid lines he did not deserve over his skin. It would have been _easy_ to kill him. To kill them _all_. Unskilled, poor and starving there was no honour in it. One of Cersei’s hired swords could manage – even her brother Robb and he’d never been much good at finishing a job. Nobody knew exactly where  the Kingslayer was but Arya thought the gods had sent her his son as payment – something for her to butcher and leave out on display. Yet…

A rya thought of her father and what he would say…  It was as though his pale blue eyes were upon her and for the moment, she stilled her sword.

The cat purred, flicked one of its tattered ears down and coughed dryly. Tommen ran his fingers through its silver fur to calm it. The creature was terrified of something,  s hifting  its attention from side to side. “Where  are you  from?” Tommen asked, but received no reply at all. The  girl was staring at the cat in his lap. “ Would you like to pet her?” He nodded at the cat. “ You can if you like. This is not my cat.”

Arya shook her head. “I prefer dogs...”

“Of course,” Tommen replied, perfectly calm. “Your sister was the same. She was very sad about a dog...” The young Stark was shocked – that was most people’s reaction to him the second he displayed an inch of common sense. He knew exactly who Arya was.

“Wolf...” She breathed. “My sister had a _wolf_.”

“I lived with Lady Sansa for several years and you for a couple of weeks when your father served as Hand of the King. I do not easily forget a face. Yours is quite distinctive. As are your manners.”

* ~*~*

“I want to show you something,” Tommen added, setting the cat down. He waved the cautious Stark over to the fire, knelt and pointed towards the flames. In the depths of light slept a dragon, curled up with its tail waving about.

Arya gasped softly. “Ash!”

“You know this dragon?”

She nodded. “ It belongs to the Queen  but I did not think I’d see it again. It s wam off  outside King’s Landing …  Careful, it’s not like the others.”

“What do you mean?” Tommen asked.

“The other three are siblings. They hunt and sing together. This one’s different. Like a stray. She barely looks at it. The Queen has been keeping it in a cage.”

“Like us?”

“I’m not _stray_ ,” Arya riled. “And nor are you. You’ve a father and an uncle.”

“Not a mother?” Tommen lowered his voice, as if he’d guessed the answer.

Arya’s hand flexed at her side. There was a bruise left by the chain  cutting across her palm. “Cersei died.  Tyrion...”

T ommen shook his head, deciding he really  _didn’t_ wish to know his mother’s fate  in detail . Not yet. “Is that why you are here – to retrieve the Queen’s dragon?”

“I don’t care about dragons. Obviously they are real – as real as direwolves but they belong in the East. The Valyrians used them to kill Nymeria’s people. They burned beautiful cities to the ground.”

Tommen frowned. “The Dornish hero?”

“She was a princess of the Rhoynar. The Dragon Lords destroyed the Rhoyne so she took her people across the seas to Dorne. They feared her. She was an adventurer – a warrior. She never did what other people expected.” Arya spoke of her with an unusual level of admiration.

“Ah, the romantic version that maesters tell children,” Tommen agreed. “We’ve all got stories like that in our Houses. I’m sure old maester Luwin picked her because you like to hunt with your brothers and better them in play. The Dornish gifted the Crown with many history books when Robert sat on the throne, including detailed accounts of Nymeria and her army of dispossessed. Yes, she was loved by those who survived her conquest – possibly not so much by the Kings of the Torrentine… By all these honest stories, some writ in her own hand, Nymeria was _not_ a warrior but she  did lead men into war. Indeed, she is not so different from the dragon queen.”

A rya hissed at that accusation. “Nymeria is  _nothing_ like the foreign queen.”

“No, you are right,” Tommen kept his eye on _Ash_ sleeping within the flames. “Daenerys Targaryen was born across that bay, on Dragonstone. She has come home and she will wrack a terrible vengeance on the houses that unravelled her empire.  I heard Varys whisper it one night. We are _both_ on that list, Arya Stark. Your father led a war  that killed her brother and my father thrust a sword through the last Targaryen king’s back. We are the same to her.”

“Is this your plan – to hide in sea caves until you starve?”

Tommen shook his head. “I have a son – or soon enough I will. Dying in shit does him no service. We are headed to the pirate camp on Dragonstone.”

“I have met some of these pirates. They stew weak kings and leave the bones in the pot to soften.”

_He’ll die anyway_ , Arya told herself, as she slept on the sand floor inside the  c rabber’s cave.  The Faceless God could collect that name himself. It wasn’t  _weakness_ or compassion. It was… Arya rolled over to face the cold, black wall. Killers should not ask questions of the faces they come to take.  _Subtlety is the enemy of resolve._ That was something her father had taught her, sitting under the red tree at  _Winterfell_ .  _Do what you must,_ he had insisted,  _when you must. Ask not what the gods want. The gods are old and have problems of their own._

Is this mercy? Compassion? Those words were distant from Arya.

* ~*~*

The Stark girl was gone come the morning. Tommen stoked the coals in the fireplace, waking  _Ash_ who  batted at the poker then got up and stretched its crimson limbs  i n a cat-like manner.

“The wolf-child is right...” Tycho sat up, head full of sand. He’d aged a decade from the rough night. “Dragonstone will be your grave when the Queen finds you there.”

Tommon scooped the baby dragon into his arms. Remarkably its scales were cool to the touch. “The Queen  _will_ seek to kill me, I’ll not deny it but not yet, old man. Not yet… My grandfather taught me something very important when he realised that my brother was a tyrant not long for the world. He took me aside, sat me in that ghastly room of his and said,  _‘Always remember what you are – a piece on the board of kings. Pieces have value. Value has power. Power has consequence.’_ If you know your own value, you can predict the outcome of people’s decisions – even kings.”

“Or queens.”

“Yes, Tycho, or queens.”

T he banker could not pick fault with that logic. “I thought the girl might have killed you in the night,” he admitted. “She had a look about her.”

“I am sure that is what she intended,” Tommen replied. “Now that she’s had her chance, I needn’t be worried about what’s waiting over my shoulder. Hurry up. The crabbers are waiting. They’ll take us to the rough side of the island. From there we’re on our own.”

###  **HIGHGARDEN – THE REACH**

‘ _I saw it myself, hiding in the foothills of the Red Mountains with a frightened group of town folk. The whole sad thing played out, as if staged by a travelling theatre for the amusement of the gods. It began with a field – soft underfoot, prone to flood from the nearby Mander river, not quite able to reach Blackwater Bay except in a hundred trickling streams. That morning it was particularly blue and the open grass fields brittle with age waving about in a breeze that hailed from the South. The army was so beautifully still. The higher the sun rose, the more golden they became. White banners and green hands. Roaring lions and red tears. No one had ever seen three dragons take flight – black, silver and green.’_

“Sorry… Ah-”

It was clear the Tyrell guard did not know Sam’s name. That was to be expected. He was used to being an unknown, in fact, often he preferred it. “ _Sam_ will do,” Sam replied.

“Honeywater.” The guard set the cup on the desk where Sam’s old book lay open. He hovered, tilting his head curiously. “What is it that you read?”

“Oh this?” The book was a good half-foot thick with a red silk ribbon laying down the open page. “The Dance of Dragons. I found it open in the library. Perhaps I should not have borrowed it-”

“I am certain it is permitted. Our Lady Olenna is a great reader.”

“This is the page I found marked.” Sam turned the book slightly so that the guard could read. “The Field of Fire.” He could not help but feel that Olenna Tyrell had given more thought to the coming war with Daenerys than anyone gave her credit for. She had learned the lessons of House Gardener and aligned herself behind the wall of flame – unlike his foolish father. “It says that they brought the bodies of House Gardener back to the Reach and buried them-”

“-in the field between the castles...”

Sam had often looked from _Horn Hill’s_ perch at the fertile orchids, absurdly green even in the late Summer. “The bounty of Highgarden is the profit of their death. My father found amusement in the stories. While men wage war the earth lays in wait to feast upon the dead.” He paused, as another column of flame rose above the bank of _Highgarden’s_ green walls. “It does not matter how badly that dragon scorches the crops – they will regrow, stronger than before.”

There was another roar, like thunder. It accompanied the jets of fire breathed from  _Drogon’s_ throat. “ The other men,” the guard stammered, “they did not think anything so green could burn.”

“Dragonfire is different...” Sam replied. “I’ve seen it turn King’s Landing’s walls into glowing rivers and mud into glass.”

“Is it true what they say? That King’s Landing is a pile of smoking rubble in the sea?”

“Parts of it,” Sam nodded. There was a furnace in the air before she appeared, the Queen on dragonback, darting in and out of the highest flames – barely a speck.

“And the Sunspear?”

“I have not been to Dorne.”

“She won’t burn Horn Hill,” the guard assured him. “It is a good fortress – far better to leave a thing like that standing.”

*~*~*

Hundreds of Tyrell soldiers waited along the first of the _Highgarden’s_ high walls. Most were armed with bows and, as the walking burned stumbled toward them in panic and terror, the archers cut them down. Many had to look away as they let fly with their arrows. These people were _kin_. They played as children. Married between each other. Partied in great halls when the harvest moon held sway over the sky… One of the Tyrells walked out onto the fringe of battle and took a man in his arms, helping his blackened body to the ground before sending a sword through his side. His flesh was so burnt that the blood flowed grey and was left dry on his blade.

_They must be screaming_ , Sam thought, but he could not hear them  above the roar of the churning flames.

Sam wanted to launch himself into the fray – hold up his arms and beg for the slaughter to end. To help, at least, the injured but the Queen was _absolute_. The entirety of Randyll’s army was to perish on the field. She was drafting a song, one that would be wept upon throughout the realm. He wished he could disagree with her logic but Daenerys was _right_. Killing these men in such a brutal, public fashion would save _thousands_ of lives throughout the realm. Like her ancestor, the great conqueror Aegon, she understood the importance of ending a war in haste.

Sam could not think of _any_ _house_ that might stand against her after this day.

“The others are saying that you are a traitor to your House, Lord Tarly.” The guard had returned and this time, learned Sam’s true name. “H-how can you sit here in the shade of the Highgarden and watch them burn? These are _your_ men.”

“Like this...” Sam was surprised by the coldness of his words. He had been staring at the violence for so long he numbed to it. The murdered were becoming numbers in his mind instead of faces. “And they are not my men, at least – not yet. I am a brother of the Night’s Watch turned maester. My family bonds were broken long ago.”

“Not in your heart. Those can’t be broken by a few whispered words in front of a bone-tree.”

“Even so… I watch so that I may set this scene in ink. One day your children’s children will read this moment in my unsteady hand.” Sam tilted his head back. “Although I doubt I can properly convey the shade of orange in the sky or this ash that seems to fall out of nowhere. Never learned many words for ‘fire’...”

“Maybe this is why you do not have a maester’s chain...” Even in the thick of the sobering war, the strangers shared the shadow of a smile. “Many are saying that the Targaryen is mad like her father. Is there truth in their fear?”

Sam shook his head. “No. What possesses Daenerys is something more frightening that madness.”

“Power, then...”

“It does not interest her. The Dragon Queen is a zealot. You are a looking at a god granted wings.” And neither of them could look away.

*~*~*

The Tarlys did not die in the order Daenerys intended. Dickon was a fool. At full gallop he charged _Drogon_ as the beast skidded low above the open field – claws dragging in the grass. _Drogon_ flicked his tail, hit Dickon’s horse and threw both him and the animal ten feet. They landed in a pile of lifeless steel. As Daenerys sailed overhead, she had just enough time to watch the horse lay its head down on the grass in surrender.

Randyll had a keen eye for battle and a strong will to survive. Daenerys caught sight of him riding full hilt through his men. He cleared their dissolving ranks before she could dissuade _Drogon_ from his current path of destruction and vanished into the high stone walls that guarded _Horn Hill’s_ flanks. He knew his history. Only dragons could fight dragons in open fields but in the narrow, stone crypts beneath the settlement, Daenerys would have to follow him on foot if she wanted his head because there was no man alive in these hills that would come for it on her behalf.

Daenerys laid low on the dragon’s back as it took another pass at the fields. Flame ripped through the air with an unsettling hiss which soon became as distinct and frightening as rolls of thunder. It was a sound which the world was learning…

_Coward_ , Daenerys throught. The old war monger was trying to goad her into a grave.

*~*~*

After the soldiers were all dead or dying, Daenerys landed _Drogon_ in front of _Horn Hill_. Smoke welled up from each pile of flesh while fronts of fire that had caught in the dried corn were swept along with the wind, ravishing the harvest. It did not occur to Daenerys that the corn many not grow again for many years if the snows came or that the corpses on the field were not the only victims of her blood-letting politics. Behind, _Highgarden_ had turned an alarming shade of green in contrast, almost as dark as the jungle of _Ulthos_. A hand reached up from the ground and caught hold of her boot. She tripped onto the stinking ground – black mud up to her arms and pieces of bone nicking her skin. Turning, Dany found the dying creature with half his face smouldering and a single pearl eye, sightless, staring. Kicking, she tried to shake the corpse free but its bony fingers dug into the leather like a vice.

Dany sat up, contorted her tiny frame and grasped at the soldier’s arm. _Mhysa_ … The chant of _Meereen_ echoed in her mind. _Mhysa – Mhysa – Mhysa_ – on and on as she unhooked the dying man’s fingers from her ankle and backed away through the muck. Robbed of hope, the soldier rolled onto his back and let his life sink into the ground along with the blood and ash of his friends. Dany searched the skies but _Drogon_ was roaming the field, feasting.

A Tyrell soldier cantered toward her. His grey-speckled mare nodded its head as he tugged back sharply on the reins and dismounted. He pulled the Queen from the mud and waited patiently as she wiped her face and brushed her braided silver hair over her shoulder.

“Lord Tarly hides inside his palace crypts.”

“What is your wish, my Queen? Shall I send the men in after him?” There were other horsemen riding through the smoke. A glittering chrome army with blue rose banners brandished to the sky – not a single dragon in sight.

“No. Ride to Highgarden. Dress Samwell Tarly in something suitable then find him a sword and bring him here.”

*~*~*

_Jorah would stop me_. With _Drogon_ lumbering over the fields and the Tyrell soldiers scrambling inside the _Horn Hill_ fortress, Daenerys  was left standing at the entrance to the catacombs with a company of men. The stone archway was the same colour as the _Meereenese_ walls.  Similarly pale and scuffed from war – made from sandstone dug up in the _Red Mountains_ where it was not quite so red. Long stretches of weather had sucked their pink and ochre hues and rounded their edges. Now, they stood more as bone than beauty.

The interior  maintained its youthful blood.  There was no door  on the  entrance  which oddly  fac ed the undefended  North. Inside the shadow, the surface was burnt umber, deep and rich with rivers of fools gold embedded in the blocks.  Only the first few torches had been lit and their reach was short. Beyond the flame the narrow tunnel twisted off to the left and out of sight with a terrible pair of fighting bulls embossed on the stone  with inlaid copper horns.

S amwell Tarly had already rounded that corner and headed deeper into the maze. Even his footsteps had faded to nothing. The only sound left was that of the wind, cutting too close  to the rock . The Tyrell  men beside her  said nothing but she knew exactly what they were thinking. This is  _not_ what was discussed  but it would answer a few of her questions in a way that prevented lies. Whomever emerged from the crypts – if anyone – paid for their lordship as the  _Dothraki_ did.

Violence was honest.

* ~*~*

S am’s sword felt heavy and ridiculous in his shaking hand. He held it as Jon had taught, keeping the torch in his left. Sparks flew, dancing and dying on the walls which were adorned with rough ly painted hunting scenes. Deer, rabbit, bears, wolves, lions and unicorns pranced over the surface chased by a hail of spears and crudely drawn men.  Sam thought they would fade away as he drifted deeper into the catacombs but they thickened, suffocating every spare surface like the graffiti on  _Castle Black’s_ tables.

“Fascinating...” He breathed, stopping in front of one display. A star had been drawn, falling across the stone with bodies scattered everywhere, dead.

“I agree.”

Sam  whirled  around so fast his flame died  leaving only the torch carried by his father alight.  Randyll stood in the centre of the passage. He’d discarded most of his battle armour except for the glorious House sword  _Heartsbane_ which remained sheathed  save for its ornately carved  pummel.  Years had passed since  Sam had laid  eyes  on his father. He was surprised to find him older. His grey hair was white. The shadow of a beard disfigured his sharp jaw and his usual red shirt was covered in soot.  He was thinner, with shadows cast beneath his collar bones and blemishes writ in skin that had spent long decades campaigning in the  Summer sun .

Randyll  _laughed_ as he hung his torch upon a waiting iron claw set in the wall . “ Robert Baratheon was often mocked as a stupid man but he knew a thing or two about war.  He knew when to wage it and how to keep the threat of it at bay.  If Eddard had listened, our men wouldn’t be bone and ash and she would be another forgotten child, murdered on the fringes of the world.”

S am was too frightened to reply. His father cast the greatest of shadows in the world. He’d lived beneath them his whole life.

“Nothing to say?” Randyll taunted. His body was rigid – disciplined even in abject defeat. There was nothing left of his honour and yet it bound his bones. It was not something that could be taken. Then his tone softened. “Straighten up then boy – hold your bloody sword properly. Didn’t they teach you anything up there at The Wall? Alliser’s a gullible, brow-beaten, overfed shit but he’s a fighter. On a good day he’s even a reasonable swordsman and a hard fucking bastard to please.”

Sam remembered being packed into the wagon by his father – the rain pouring down and a pair of bored soldiers piling in bags of dried dates beside him, bound for _The Wall_. The dates had more value than him. He had watched his home fade into a smear as they took the _Ocean Road_ then days and nights bouncing around in the mud with the sea crashing up against the dizzying cliffs and gulls screaming out their lungs as they descended on _Crakehall_. Weeks on the road spent staring at the point on the horizon, beneath the flap of canvas turned into dreams where he imagined his mother seated at her window, weeping tears she never shed.

Randyll drew _Heartsbane._ The flames from the torch reached for it at once, arcing out longingly toward the ashen blade. “You do not even flinch. That is something, I guess.”

“Queen Daenerys-”

Randyll shook his head. “Yes – yes. She is not the first general to send a son after a father’s head. Do you understand her wager?”

This time, Sam managed to nod.

“Studious, more your style. It is a war tactic made famous by a Rhoynish siege, only in the historic case it was a much loved bastard and you are a true-born disappointment.” There was no evidence that Randyll regretted his harsh choice of words. “Your brother is dead. The glorious dragon queen burned him where he stood. He is probably still there being picked at by corpse birds.” It was a guess but one way or another, the first of his boys was dead. “A man never had a finer son. His life was for nothing because _nothing_ will come of _us_... Tears?” He noticed Sam’s cheeks wet. “It is too late for tears. Your mother threw herself from the Oak Tower when she saw the dragon in the dawn light. I am _glad_ for it. She never had to see her boy ruined.” Randyll faltered as he spoke of his wife. Those old, grey eyes of his paled with a sheen of salt. The finer lines in his face quivered, holding back a tide of sorrow. Even the cliffs loved the sea.

“Liar...”

“Liar – _liar?!_ ” Randyll screamed the last word, staggering forward with his sword raised. “Boy, you risk much to call me a liar. I am not a duplicitous bastard like the rest of them. I can imagine the Tyrells, standing out there – cowering behind a child.”

“We are the sworn liege lords of Highgarden-”

“We are the sworn liege lords of the _Iron Throne_.” Randyll bellowed. “Highgarden conspired to overthrow the rule of law and hand the empire to a dragon bitch. Hundreds of _thousands_ of good men died to see the last Targaryen fall. Open your eyes, boy. There is nothing but scorched earth wherever she treads. A monster like her father, through and bloody through.”

“The Queen is _not_ mad.”

“No. I have it on good authority that she is quite sane unlike that hunched bastard who whispered horrors to himself, night and day and the Spider that hissed them in his ear. Young Prince Rhaegar was madder still. He saw fit to destroy the Seven Kingdoms for a fleeting song. Jealousy and Love. What a waste. Your queen believes with absolute authority that she is _right_ and therefore can justify _any_ volume of blood required to purchase her dream of Spring. You are many things, my boy, but you are not stupid. If you intend to follow the Targaryen after this day then you must be privy to information that I am not.”

Sam wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve. “The army of the dead are coming. All the terrible things that we’d banished to the shadows of memory have come out into the light. They are led by soldiers made of ice. I killed one of them myself – beyond The Wall. The Dragon Queen has seen them too and she believes that the Stark words are true – Winter is coming. I was _there_ when Lord Commander Snow was awakened from death by a fire witch. You said that Thorne was gullible but Lords Varys and Tyrion are not – nor was King Stannis or Mance Rayder. Every day more names add themselves to the list of those who side with the Queen _not_ because they want her to sit on the Iron Throne but because they don’t want to freeze to death. They’re afraid. I’m afraid. We’re all scared shitless. The waters of the Trident have already begun to freeze. Snow is sneaking onto Riverrun and soon enough it will strangle these hills. That’s why I left the Night’s Watch – I thought I could find the answers Jon needed inside the Citadel.”

“Did you? No. Of course not. I could have told you that. If there _is_ anything of use it’ll be buried deep. The last thing the maesters want is for anyone but themselves to know the truth. You should have tried the Nightfort, boy. Everyone knows they have the oldest library in the Seven Kingdoms.” Slowly, Randyll lowered his sword. “This is the last conversation we’ll have in this world, are you sure you want to waste it on some old story?” He could not bare it. Randyll shook his head then nodded at Sam’s sword. “Get on with it, then.”

“N-no.”

“The Queen sent you down here to kill me.”

“Yes but-”

“If you fail to obey her I promise she’ll feed you to that dragon of hers. Learn to recognise a test, Samwell, kings and queens are fond of them. They like to prove the loyalty of their creatures.”

“I cannot kill my father...” Sam whispered, almost losing his grip on the sword.

“And I’ll not live another day without your mother. It was you that brought the Targaryen bitch here and you that killed her.” Randyll came at him in a surge of rage, knocking both the torch and sword from Sam’s hands. He pushed his boy up against the catacomb wall, nearly crushing the life from him. “Would you rather it were _me_ that walks out of these crypts? Would you?” Randyll demanded. “The first thing I’ll do is swear allegiance to that whore queen then go and find that Wildling and the child of hers. I’ll skin your woman alive and throw the boy into the sea. If he doesn’t drown, the rocks and crabs will have him.” He felt his son push back but not hard enough to shift the blade. “Next I’ll pay that bastard Snow a call. If he won’t die, I’ll tie him to a sacred tree and set the whole thing alight. We’ll see how resilient he is to the quickening flame.”

Sam pushed his father so hard he hit the opposing wall then he scrambled for his sword, brandishing the cheap steel while the torch flared on the ground. “I won’t let you touch my family.”

“Then _fight._ Show me that you are my son!”

Sam tried but Randyll met him every time, easily fending him off.

“Higher. No – don’t chip away at your opponent – commit to it. You have to _want_ it.” Randyll coerced him.

_Training him_ , Sam realised, and immediately pulled back. For a moment, he thought he saw his father’s eyes smile. “ You don’t have to so this,” Sam gasped, breathless from the fight.

“I want you to survive,” a difficult truth to draw from old Taryl’s lips. “You are all that is left of this family. If you won’t honour me, honour that. Take that Wildling of yours and have a hundred children. That’s all that matters now.”

T he tears were thick in Sam’s eyes. They blurred the flame and his father’s face.  “Did you  _ever_ love me?”

“You have your mother’s eyes and I loved _her_. I suspect I loved her as much as you  care for this Wildling – why else would you agree to the Queen’s demands if not to keep her safe… You are not the sort of boy to hold a sword to his father’s throat to come within reach of the throne.”

“Perhaps not.” Sam agreed, tossing his sword to the ground for good. It clattered wearily without a single speck of blood. “Truth is, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t kill you. I have a better proposition.”

“I am certain that you do.” Randyll bent down and picked up the cheap iron blade. He shook his head and offered his son the _Valyrian_ sword instead.

“I don’t want it...” Sam insisted.

“Too bad. You have it.”

###  **KING’S LANDING – WESTEROS**

_Viserion_ grew paler. He’d shaken off most of the brown hues from mountains behind  _Ghis_ and strengthened the  branches of gold that crept over his wings.  His leathery wings were stretched tight revealing pulsating veins. Dragons used their wings to cool down and tonight he had them partially unfolded.

“There’s no denying that you are a great beauty,” Jorah whispered lovingly, reaching out. He placed his hand upon the dragon’s snout and felt the creature push back lightly against him. The dragons were learning how to contain their strength although they remained slightly awkward, occasionally knocking over caravans with their sweeping tails or brushing walls down with a stray, powerful wing. There were times when Jorah wished that he could hold one of them in his hands again and feel their tiny hearts thump as he’d done in the _Red Waste_. “No,” he added, when _Viserion_ began to snort, frisking him for evidence of food. “I did not bring you anything. I think we can quite agree that you have had enough for today.” He worried that a diet of human flesh might give the creature a taste for it.

The dragon made a nest for himself on the top of the _Red Keep_ and filled it with charred human bone. The scene may have shocked him ten years ago but Jorah was immune to the ways of dragons. _Viserion_ was wet from playing in the sea and littered the stone with beads of water. Jorah rested against the low wall and laid his head back to look toward the evening sky, searching fruitlessly for _Rhaegal_ until he heard footsteps rise hurriedly up the spirals steps. _Viserion_ heard them too and snapped his enormous head around with a growl.

“Easy – _easy!_ ” Jorah grabbed onto one of the horns sprouting from the side of the dragon’s face and used his weight to drag him back. “Ser Seaworth – I shall tell you this once, it is _unwise_ to rush a dragon.”

Davos pulled himself to a dramatic stop as the dragon’s hot, smoking breath wafted all too close to his head. Rows of black, curved fangs glistened with saliva. He froze, eyes locked on the terrifying sight. This was the second time he’d found himself face to face with a dragon in as many days. The Queen’s largest – the black one, was very different but no less unnerving. “A-a-apologies...”

Jorah calmed  _Viserion_ , whispering words in  _High Valyrian_ until it brought its paw forward and scratched at the stone floor. “Dragons are quick to startle,” he waved  Davos onto the roof. “Think of them as unbroken horses.”

“Horses that can take yer head off...” Davos added, unable to shift his eyes off the creature. “I spent a good deal of time on Dragonstone with King Stannis. There were plenty of dragons carved into them sad walls. Never liked it much me-self. All them staring out with mouths open and exaggerated fangs. Never saw the appeal.”

“And now?” Jorah’s voice dragged calmly, as the creature snorted a puff of smoke over him.

“Warming up ter the idea.” Then there was silence as the Northern knight stared expectedly at Davos. “Oh – right… Yer were wondering why I’m here.”

“Curious, perhaps.”

“Has anyone told yer that yer’ve lost most of yer Northern accent?”

“All Westerosi sound the same to a Dothraki hoard. They say I am an Andal then wonder why it sets me in a sour mood.”

“They are an unusual people,” observed Davos carefully. “Excellent horsemen. Do yer miss the East?”

Jorah was suspicious of the intrusion but  _Viserion_ was  an adept judge of danger and he was purring softly – enough to shake the air. “Can you miss the breath of death upon your neck?” Jorah replied, running his free hand up and down the dragon’s snout. “The poets say those are the moments life burns hottest.”

“Mostly Summer Isle shits. Never seen a day of sand in their life.”

He laughed softly. “I have a few scars from those years, as does our Queen. She learned the ways of the world at the sharp end of the sword.”  This time it was the  _Red Keep_ that quivered underfoot. It was a faint rustle – barely enough to nudge a little of the mortar loose.  _Viserion_ pulled his lip back, exposing  his fangs.  “ Have you noticed that the ground is shaking?”

“Aye. I noticed.” Davos admitted, resting against the low wall. He chose to ignore the growing pile of human bone collected around the dragon’s feet. “Thought it was normal – spent me life at sea. The water is always movin’ about.”

J orah slowly shook his head and cast a wary gaze toward  _Dragonmount_ . “No. It is normal. The Dothraki were singing prayers around the fire. They believe the great stallion is riding the fiery roads of the underworld, on his way to this life.”

“To – save them?”

“No. To fuck the world.” It was difficult to tell if the smoke laying on _Blackwater Bay_ was solely from the destruction of _King’s Landing_ or coughed up by the mountain when no one was looking.  The coast was littered with rises of rock that crawled into the ocean in arches and plinths, forged in agony. “Why are you smiling?”

“Only – the dragon. I knew a little girl once, loved ter read stories about them. It was her that taught me most o’ what I know of history. Before that, ‘Targaryen’ was just a name and dragons were piles o’ old bone.” A pause of sorrow. “She was burned alive by her own parents ter buy a warm morning. Can’t say it were worth it. Won’t forget her screams. I ‘ave to imagine them as I weren’t there to hear them me-self. That’s why I came up ‘ere.”

“To tell me about Stannis murdering his daughter? A wasted trip. That is a story I have heard before.”

“No aye. It’s your cousin. A fierce creature, if ever I saw one. She has more wisdom than a maester and more sense than the entire Stark lineage. Honestly, if that five foot monster asked my sword of me I’d wade out into the snow on me own to kill whatever she asked. That said – she is still a child, Ser an’ she is alone. It is inevitable that you two will meet. Be kind. Was not her tha’ did the banishing.”

“What do you care of House Mormont’s fate?”

“My children are all dead...” Davos replied softly. “Out there,” he nodded at the _Blackwater._ “The only future I have belongs to somebody else.”

J orah petted the dragon again before the enormous beast lowered itself to the ground, folding its legs underneath,  lay its wings on the wall  and stretched  them right  out like great sails. “You and me both, Ser Davos.  I have no children either.”

“Of course. Sorry. What are you – fifty?”

“Not quite...” Jorah lifted one of his eyebrows menacingly, daring Davos to challenge him.

“Do you remember those days, long past now, when the women wore gowns of lurid colours? Hideous things left to soak in dye far too long, imported from Norvos and Pentos? Aye, yer do. I can see. Thought they were perfectly joyous when the women got twirling about. In the court of kings, the ladies were like blooms from Summer and then men-”

“Bees, circling eagerly, no doubt.” Jorah finished dryly.

“I’d have those years again. Again and again… If I could stop time that is where I’d leave it.”

“Endless Summer?” Jorah asked, his mind drifting back to the season of festival. He had hosted feasts as Lord of Bear Island and draped his ugly hall in expensive floral bowers shipped in from the Southern end of the realm. His wife had been one of those women – arms held aloft, head tilted back and eyes fixed on the grand chandeliers as she danced. That was when she smiled. When she moved, the world moved with her. The trappings of kings melted her heart but it quickly froze when the gold ran dry. Just like her smile. Jorah looked away, deciding he preferred the evening air.

“I don’t think this Targaryen girl cares much for gold trinkets.”

“Queen Daenerys has never worn anything so vulgar as a crown...”

*~*~*

Marwyn caught the raven in his hands. The creature’s wings  instinctively  folded in while its head bent around to pick  angrily  at his hands.  He tipped it over onto  its back, charming  the raven into calm as he untied to the message from its leg.

Marwyn was on his feet before he had finished reading. Stumbling over the  open fire, he picked his way through the  _Unsullied_ tents spread out over the field – searching for the path into town. He snatched a lantern from one of the guards, muttering a hand-fisted thanks. Sam and the Wildling had left the city and the Queen, whose eyes should have read it first, was  busy  sacking the  _Reach_ so Marwyn searched for the Mormont knight. His trail ended at the  _Red Keep_ . The  _Dothraki_ guards had seen him enter the remains of the palace but no one could say where he went after that.

“Drink?” The goblet appeared before the imp. “What was your name again?” An alarmingly drunk Tyrion raised his glass from the bank of stain glass windows running along the wall facing East. He was half-collapsed, ensconced in his wine-induced delirium and every inch the debauched rumour that circled the realm.

Sweat dripped off Marwyn’s broad forehead. He could not run another step, nor could he face a bottle. “Might you know where Lord Varys is?” He asked carefully.

Tyrion snorted into his glass and immediately sent beads of red wine over his shirt. He said nothing – simply pointed upwards, indicating the steps at the side of the room. Tyrion laughed again and began to sing of a god with tits which the world suckled, growing fat. Marwyn took the steps at a rush, dragging his weight up them using the stone bannister as a ladder. There were so many hateful blocks beneath his feet he thought his heart might clench and fail.

M arwyn tried to knock on Varys’ door but honestly, as he lifted his hand to the heavy surface he stumbled forward with exhaustion and pushed it open with his shoulder. The interior of the room was dark, lit by a single lantern on the table to the left and an open window that let in the stench of smoke from the city.

Varys was knelt on the floor sorting through a pile of books with vast ink stains on both hands. “Archmaester Marwyn...” He drawled, in surprise. “May I be of assistance?”

He had forgotte n how dark the Spider’s eyes were when they weren’t beside a flame. Marwyn collected himself, closed the door and used it as a prop to keep him self upright. “You are getting thin, my friend.” He replied, to which Varys grinned  as the reverse was not true . Relaxed, he continued stacking piles of books, pausing at a few to cast his eye over their spine s . “ How far do you and I go back?”

_Thump. Thump. Thump._ Each heft y book buried the next. “Better that neither of us recall.”

“A _vast chasm_ of time,” Marwyn ignored the subtle advice. “Long enough that I can show you _this_.”

Varys had to squint at the damp, crumpled  scrap of raven’s paper. “Marwyn, it is far too late in the evening to tease me.”  _Thump._ “Either tell me what  you’ve lugged all the way up here or come close enough so that I may read it  for  myself.”  _Thump._ “ I am not so young nor patient as I once was.”

“Your patience is a thing of myth...” Marwyn puffed. Sweat stuck his clothes to his skin. Part of him longed for the freezing Winter. The humidity of the South drove was going to kill him. “It is a note from Castle Black addressed to an old friend of mine.”

“ _Another_ one.  Marwyn… You have quite too many ‘friends’ all of which have loose mouths and spread legs.”

“Leyton.”

Varys’ hands stilled on the pile of books.  That was not the kind of friend he had imagined.

“Now I have your attention…”

“Lord Hightower is not so much a friend as a curse.” Varys warned. “His notions _infected_ your better judgement. There was a time when you were a promising young maester.”

“And you, a perfect street rat.”

_Thump._ Varys returned to his pile of books.  “What does this letter say?”

“Not a great deal. The Lord Commander writes to Leyton, explains that he has in his possession of a document written in Asshai’i found in Eastwatch. He asks him to travel immediately to The Wall to assist in the translation of this document but there is no hint about what it might contain.”

“No doubt something old and useless...”

“Ye of little faith. While you were busy feigning an interest in Leyton’s collection of antiquities I went to the trouble of studying many of the specimens and it may interest you to hear that this is _not_ t he first time a Lord Commander of The Watch has begged help from Leyton,” Marwyn continued, “but it _is_ the first time  I have seen one of their ravens veer off course of their own volition. This should have been found by one of my _dear_ Archmaesters at Old Town. How, one may ask, did the bird find its way into my hand at King’s Landing?”

V arys  was troubled. “How,” he corrected, “did the bird  _know_ that the intended recipient of the message was already dead...” Neither of them were willing to speculate. “Is that all there is then, a request to read a n old scrap of rubbish ?” Marwyn nodded. “ Can you  decipher it?”

“Of course. I dare say so could you. Perhaps with a little less finesse.”

“I hope you are not suggesting that I pack up and ride off to The Wall in a flurry of panic… You should know me better than that, Marwyn.”

“No. It would take a great deal of effort to shift you from this fortress now that you have regained your perch. There are webs all through these old hallways – most of them yours. However… _Someone_ must go, and it would seem that someone is me.”

“What are you here for – permission? I am not your master, Marwyn. Come and go as you please. I shall even send your kind regards to the Queen, if you wish. There’s a wagon full of dragonglass leaving before dawn. You can ride with them.”

Varys had a point and Marwyn should have left things where they were but he had been visited by ghosts in the perfumed whore houses. He heard them breathing whispers. Questions lurked at the back of his mind that had risen to the surface of his conscience as the empire’s foundations shook. The decades that passed between him and Varys were mostly done so in silence. There were unasked questions that deserved answers. The world was heading toward a point in which they might never speak again. “Have you wondered, Varys, who it was that wanted Leyton dead?”

“Half the realm and everything East of the Narrow Sea, I imagine.”

“I am perfectly serious…”

“So am I,” Varys insisted. “Old Leyton had his hands in a great deal of coffers. He owed alarming debts. Stole cursed relics. Hoarded treasure from the vaults of paper kings. Read from forbidden texts and offended the very order that tried to give him a chain. The only thing that surprises me is that he lived to see his hair go grey.”

“And you may have a point, if he’d been found poisoned in his sleep or thrown from the Hightower but Leyton was not only killed, he was _replaced_.  The Faceless Men from Braavos are an expensive way to deal with an old man on the other side of the world. There is not a maester in the Citadel that could spare the expense and fewer still with the means to coerce the violent cult into anything more elaborate than murder. What was their purpose in impersonating him?”

“That much, at least, is obvious.”

“Not to me...”

Varys decided to leave the pile of books and struggle to his feet. He tried to wipe the ink stains from his hands but it had sunk deep leaving his skin squid-like. “ Leyton spen t  his days sending  vast quantities of letters across the realm. One might assume that whomever it was, intended to send a letter.”

“To whom?”

This time Varys shrugged. “That is a secret  which died with Leyton.”

Marwyn looked again at the crumpled paper in his hand. “Perhaps it was the _answer_ our faceless friends were interested in and our murderer was actually a spy in search of privileged insight?”

“Does this matter now, Marwyn?” Varys asked impatiently. “Whatever the intent, however sinister or benign, it failed at your hand. This could have been a simple case of political jostling between the wealthy Southern lords. Dorne was always fond of a good intrigue. Or maybe all your worst fears came home to roost and the Order of Maesters really _were_ making overtures into politics  using one of their least favourite pets as a talking corpse...”

The slightest smile curled the edge of Marwyn’s thick lips. “Funny. The old man always loved his birds. He kept the crows inside, nesting with the books and stinking out the corners of the room. The white gulls he fed on the limestone window sills. Hundreds of them, shitting all over the tourists below. I was once one of his birds and _you_ one of _mine_.”

_That_ was a reminder Varys did not enjoy and imparted a stern  warning to Marwyn to watch his words.

He did not.  “You were a street rat that tried to pick my pocket, rather poorly, if I recall. Illyrio needed a pair of ears and you needed a favour to buy my forgiveness. My, my… How our  fortunes reversed over the years.”

“We are even, you and I,” Varys reminded him, calmly. “You helped me find the priest that took my balls. I am ever grateful.”

“Not quite. You asked a few more favours of me since then.”

“Of which you were most obliging.”

“I would argue that acquiring that fancy little sword of yours puts my neck in the lead. You should have seen Illyrio’s face when I presented it to him but it is remarkable what you can find in the un-documented treasure vaults of Volantis. Oh… He didn’t tell you where it came from? I suppose you presumed Illyrio conjured it out of the dirt. He was no magician and I, no saint of the Seven. Where is the old thing?”

A  shadow fell across Varys’ face. Marwyn watched it descend, like a maiden’s veil. As it fell, so too did a few loose threads of  a web .  With all his focus on the Winter winds, he’d  ignored his own eyes. The truth hit as a wave between and there was no hiding the reveal – leaving him no choice but to voice the horrid thing aloud. “ Illyrio is dead.”

“That is no secret.” Varys remained still as the marble statue of the lion behind. Only the lantern light shifted across the pale surface.

“ _You_ killed him.” When Varys did not attempt a denial, Marwyn felt his chest heave quite involuntarily. “ On the boat. Of course. What merchant worth his salt sinks in calm, shallow waters... _Why_?” He almost begged the word but Varys refused to offer anything in reply. “We all had an agreement – a pact.  Now Jeor is dead. Willem is almost certainly dead. Leyton is dead – and Illyrio?”

“I did _not_ kill Leyton – or Willem and Jeor for that matter. ”

“No. I don’t believe you did.” Marwyn knew that he was crushing the note inside his fist. It was all he could do to keep his temper. “But you _did_ kill Illyrio.” He shook his head in grief. “He was a _good_ man. Gods be fucking damned, Varys, he was the reason you survived.  What the hell were you thinking?”

“Drink and indulgence, Marwyn, a pair of vices of which you are acquainted. Illyrio was a fragile mind in possession of dangerous things.”

“Seven _hells_! So the man liked a goblet of wine and the company of fine women… For this, you see fit to slaughter?”

“It was only a matter of time before he betrayed confidence. Age did not suit him. He was _softening_. What we are striving for is _fragile_. The slightest mistaken breath will send it toppling into the sea.”

“So that is where you sent poor Illyrio – tumbling into the sea with all the worst fucking gods?” Marwyn could see the ghost of that ocean lapping beyond the arched window. He walked over to it and braced his hands on the stone. The sour, ash-laden air mocked his misery. “I do not believe you. There had to be another reason...”

Varys closed the space between the m , lingering a few feet behind  Marwyn – close enough that the moonlight cast a glow over his features.  Beads of sweat rolling down his bald crown glowed like stars, falling through the night. “I hoped to spare you.”

“Piss your sympathy.”

“Illyrio made a deal with Cersei Lannister. A chest of gold for Tyrion’s head in a box. He was going to take the offer.”

“Varys… You killed your best friend for a lion pelt.” Marwyn kept his eyes on the black waters and the ships that lurked within the smoke. It was a graveyard without headstones. He did not care to imagine how many skulls rolled about beneath the waves.

“ _You_ are my best friend-” Varys tried to say, but Marwyn scoffed harshly.

“Where is the sword?” He closed his eyes. The truth continued to unravel. Nothing could stop it. “Oh I see. You enlist poor Illyrio, persuade him to acquire a priceless relic which you cannot afford then sail to Braavos. You bought a _name_ and killed the only person who might have guessed. Who do you want dead – what name do you whisper to the gods?”

Varys struggled to swallow. All the colour drained from his face until he was white as snow. “He – he had to die.”

“Varys, I warn you. If the Daenerys Targaryen heard that you killed the man who orchestrated her escape from Robert Baratheon’s blade she may very well feed you to one of her beasts and I would help her do it. Poor Illyrio… Poor – poor fool.”

“Oh – dear Marwyn,” replied Varys, tears glinting in the white light, “threats from your lips are as good as shadows in the darkness. You could not help a crow kill a spider.”

A  strong hand fell onto Marwyn’s shoulder. He struggled. Pushed himself from the window but Varys gripped the flesh hard and dug his fingers in with such agony that the larger man whined like a whipped horse.  _‘G-off! Get-off!’_ The muffled demands were smothered as Varys pulled Marwyn’s face back by his sagging chin, exposing his pale throat. Varys  looked into  Marwyn’s eyes as he plunged the letter opener into Marwyn’s  neck . It  did not go in as easily as the sword. He had to throw his weight behind the blade until it punctured the flesh and  slashed the side of an artery. Blood spun off in a fountain, pushed higher with each of Marwyn’s panicked heart beats.  Marwyn pawed helplessly, scratching like a rabid stray.

The large man should have died but he kept breathing, mumbling horrific gurgling protests. He twitched in Varys’ arms. The Spider pulled back on the blade and stabbed it in again. Marwyn bucked in agony. His knees buckled and the pair of them fell to the stone floor.

“I-I’m _sorry_...” Varys  stammered, as a tear broke. He wrapped his arms around Marwyn. The man’s breaths struggled as thick blood poured down his right side. “Die...” He begged, at the terrible sound of Marwyn choking on his own blood. “Just… _Die_...” Varys wanted it to end but Marwyn had set his eye on the sky beyond the window. He was staring at the stars  and scratching at the stone.

Varys looked at the stars too. Hateful things. A Priestess is  _Volantis_ once told him that they were burning windows through which the fire watched. As the glass candles burned, so too would the sky.  He did not like sharing his secrets with the gods.

Then he realised that Marwyn lay still. The parchment from the Lord Commander was scrunched in his hand.  Varys pried it loose and hid it inside his robes.

H e lowered his cheek onto the top of Marwyn’s head,  keeping him in a morbid embrace.  Two terrible creatures at the centre of a web.


End file.
